Good Intentions
by Gold-On-The-Ceiling-42
Summary: Stiles Stilinski is dead and gone, and Stiles Winchester is stuck in his place. Possessed by the nogitsune and trapped by his heritage, Stiles is forced to battle his own mind in order to save Beacon Hills, by any means necessary. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Stiles never quite thought that road would be walked by him. The sequel to Blood on my Name.
1. End Over End

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! I'm back! To my awesome readers, I suppose I owe you all an apology for my absence. Real life hit and it kind of hit hard, and so I took a break. But I'm back now! I probably won't be updating weekly, but I'm back, and I have a new story for you! (In regards to my other story, 'When the Levee Breaks, there's a more detailed explanation on my profile but the short version is it will be altered and re-published sometime after November to fit into TW season six.) So, here's the deal with this story. This is the long awaited rewrite of TW season 3b, with Sam, Dean, and Stiles Winchester, complete with the nogitsune. Even though this is technically the sixth 'Stiles Winchester' story, it is a direct sequel to 'Blood on my Name.' If that doesn't sound familiar to you, please read it before this one. Actually, I would recommend re-reading the last chapter of 'Blood on my Name,' so the transition is more seamless. This story will cover and alter 3b, but the main focus will be the space between episode 18 and 19, the 60-hour or so time gap that Stiles goes missing in the show, and what happens after that. The stuff that happens during episodes, especially episodes 13-18, will be recapped, but the stuff not involving Stiles will be skated over or ignored, since this story, unlike previous ones, is so far exclusively from Stiles' point of view. Even the stuff involving Stiles that I choose not to elaborate on will be mentioned only quickly. Because of this I recommend rewatching 3b to avoid confusion (and cause it's awesome.)So, does that make sense? No? Excellent.**

 **So, this chapter: This chapter starts off with a bit of a preview from the aforementioned 60-hour-disappearance time gap, then recaps 'Blood on my Name,' then goes into the two-week time gap I have created between the end of my story and episode 13. It then recaps and expands on episodes 13 and 14. Since this story integrates with the actual season, it takes time to write and get right. I'm going to take my time on this story, and hopefully by doing that, it will turn out really well. So, the updates probably won't be weekly, but they will exist. Thanks for reading this exhaustive authors note, and enjoy!**

Ch. 1

End Over End

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Okay, fine. Stiles could get behind that. He'd seen it firsthand. Even from afar, it had been pretty hard to miss his brothers dragging themselves there, all with the guise of 'good intentions.' His brothers, yes, but never him.

Never him.

This, though, this was hell.

This was locked-in-your-own-body hell. And it wasn't like demon possession, where the victim was asleep for most of it, oh no. No, if only it were that easy. No, Stiles was awake. For _all_ of it. The demon hadn't let him sleep before it had made itself known, it was unlikely to change that now. Stiles had been foolish to think otherwise. And he didn't just see it. He felt it, too. He felt _everything._ It wasn't his body killing people and playing these sick games, it was him, too.

This wasn't just hell. This was the-blood-is-on-your-hands-and-you-felt-yourself-wash-it-off hell. This was a nightmare from which there is no waking up, because the demon hadn't let him sleep in 48 _fucking_ hours! Ever since the hospital!

And it had been the best intentions, too.

Stiles would like to say that it was fear and the urgency of the situation that moved him to drown himself in a pool of ice, but that's not the truth. He was calm the whole time. He was level headed. He was thinking clearly, clearer than the water that killed him. He had just wanted to save his dad, save Beacon Hills.

And here he was. In hell.

It really was like Bobby always said. "Family don't end with blood..." well, his blood is frozen and sluggish, his body is failing around him, his organs are screaming for sleep and his hands are acting of their own accord. And there's a fox who narrates the whole wonderful experience for him.

"Now, Stiles, now we're setting up a decoy trap in the woods so the real tripwire won't be noticed. I'm predicting my unlucky victim will be the coach but we'll have to see..."

Stiles tried to squeeze his eyes shut among the familiar forest landscape but his eyes acted of their own accord. The nemeton was a few yards off. He could feel it, down to his bones, and it made him want to cut all 206 of them out of his body.

His blood may be frozen, but it was Winchester blood, through and through. Stiles wanted to slap whoever would consider that a blessing. Winchesters never seem to be pinned down, but there is one place they are bound to end up eventually.

Hell.

And here we are.

But maybe Stiles is getting a little ahead of himself.

It goes like this.

Alexander died of a single gunshot wound at a spectacular sunset, and the next 24 hours were certainly strange. Stiles blew his cover, alienated his friends, unmasked his brothers to a pack of werewolves, somehow got on Chris Argent's good side, gained all of his friends back, and defeated a pack of demons. Frankly, it was exhausting. After that, and after he had settled affairs with Scott, his brothers, Allison, and whoever the hell else had a problem, after that, Stiles had gone to sleep. And then the weird dreams started. Dreams where he was at the nemeton with flashing lights all around him, and a branch reached out to wrap around his wrist and drag him down. Dreams where he felt something sneak over his shoulder, only when he turned around, nothing was there. And finally, the worst dream of them all. He and Scott were walking through the woods, a vivid imitation of what had happened hours earlier, and Stiles could have sworn on whatever pagan god you pleased that it was real. But he had to be sure. So he counted his fingers.

 _Eleven. Twelve._

And Stiles woke up screaming.

The day after Alexander, a sleep-denied Stiles left the house only to find Allison standing in front of him, skin pale, eyes gaunt, and unfocused. Even so, she tilted her head to the side and analyzed him with disturbing accuracy. Stiles winced as he felt all of his emotions rise to the surface and lay themselves bare, exposed for her to comb through. Instead of calling him out on his anxiety and worry and dread, however, Allison merely smiled softly, and the creases in her forehead abated slightly. She almost looked... Relieved.

"Stiles." she said softly in greeting, running a hand up and down her messenger bag in slight agitation.

"Allison." he replied. Despite their newly discovered common hobby, he and Allison hadn't talked much. Stiles suspected it had to do less with their relationship, and more with the fact that the both of them and Scott were probably dealing with weird side effects of the nemeton-sacrifice-thing. _He_ certainly was, and Allison didn't exactly look great. But he said nothing of the sort, sensing that, like him, they each wanted to triumph over it alone. Instead, he asked, "want a ride to school?" and she nodded and accepted.

The two of them clamored into Stiles' jeep, and once settled, Allison took a deep breath and turned toward him. His eyes were on the road but out of the corner of his eye he could make out her expression of heartbreak and fear. "Stiles." she murmured. "You have to promise me something."

After that conversation, Stiles went to school, and Stiles told Scott about his dream, and carried on.

Two weeks passed since Alexander, three since the Darach, and in those two weeks, Stiles felt foreboding creep up on him. His bad dreams didn't go away, if anything, they got worse. His sleep was being haunted by images of Alexander's face melting off, of Stiles' own hands drenched in blood, of Scott, Lydia, Allison, Isaac, Derek being shot in the chest, with his own hand on the trigger. Of a faceless voice laughing in the background of his own head, taunting him just out of sight. Walking in the school barefoot at night, only to run into the nemeton, glaring lights aimed at his head as he screamed to wake up. The nemeton lurked around every corner in his dreams, and that was only the ones he _knew_ were dreams.

Too often, Stiles would find himself in school, in class, or at home organizing his hunting gear without remembering how he got there, only to find himself screaming awake. It had felt so real, too. The lines were beginning to blur. He would doze off in class and wake up startled, only for Scott to assure him that he had been awake the whole time. Sometimes, his notebook would be covered in his own handwriting, telling himself to wake up.

The first time this happened was the Friday after Alexander. That Sunday, like he had promised, Stiles called his brothers. The conversation went a little something like this:

"Stiles." Dean answered, but his voice sounded flat. "Everything ok?"

"I'm... I'm not sure." Stiles began, and he winced upon hearing how shaky and weak his own voice sounded.

"Stiles, what's wrong?" Dean asked, alarmed. "There aren't any more demons, are there?"

"No, nothing like that. I..." Stiles took a deep breath. "I told you when you were here that I wasn't sleeping much. It's getting worse. And not only that, but I'm having horrible dreams. Dreams that feel so real, even when I scream myself awake, I'm not sure I'm out of them. And sometimes I'm not. It's been happening during the day, too."

"Stiles, I'm here for you, man." Dean said, and Stiles flinched, because that had been what Dean had said in his dream the previous night. Right before Dean had slit his throat. "But I got to be honest, maybe you should talk to your dad. Or a doctor. This sounds serious, but not supernatural."

"Dean, it started the day after we repowered the nemeton!" Stiles protested. "That is not a coincidence."

"Hey." Dean said soothingly. "I hear you. Look, you're worried, I understand, you're trying to make sense of this the only way you can. You're right, the timing is fishy. Look, talk to your dad, talk to Scott's mom, Sam and I will try to look into it after we deal with Cas."

"Cas?" Stiles asked. "What's wrong with Cas?"

"Turns out Cas was lying to us for months and wants to open purgatory with Crowley." Dean said nonchalantly, but Stiles could hear the hurt behind it. "But we'll deal with it. Don't worry about it, get some rest. As for the vivid dreams, the not knowing if you're awake or not? Dad taught me a trick, supposedly it also works if you're caught by a djinn. Count your fingers. In dreams, you have extra fingers. If you have ten fingers, you're awake."

"I think I already knew that..." Stiles mumbled, thinking back to the first bad dream, with Scott in the woods a week prior.

"Smartass." Dean grumbled fondly. "Well, try this on for size: you can't read in dreams."

"Really?" Stiles asked, for once surprised. Huh.

"Yes, really." Dean taunted. "Sam's visions being the remarkable exception."

Stiles frowned thoughtfully. "You know, I never really thought about it, but Sam's attention to detail in those is really kind of bizarre. But Dean, how do you know this? Why did John teach you to count your fingers?"

Dean was silent for a moment, and Stiles wondered if he had crossed a line. The silence over the phone was taut and heavy, and only released once Dean spoke again.

"Stiles... The things we hunt like to mess with our heads. It's helpful to know what is and isn't real, is all."

"Dean." Stiles said firmly. He didn't want to press, not now, but he could feel the truth lurking behind his brother's empty words. "Come on. Tell me the real reason."

"Really?" Dean asked, not unkindly, but not nicely, either. The pressure he was facing with Cas and Crowley was beginning to bleed through. "You really want to know the reason? Cause it's not going to make you feel better. Here's why I don't think your problem is supernatural, Stiles. The things we hunt like to mess with our heads and it works." Stiles blanched, but Dean couldn't see that over the phone, and he kept talking. "Let me take a wild guess. You're dreaming about hurting your friends. You dream about their bodies at your feet, your blood on their hands. That they're dead, and it's your fault. I bet most of those dreams take place in Derek's loft. I bet most of those dreams have you holding the Colt. Am I right, Stiles?"

"Y-yeah." Stiles said with surprise. "How'd you know?"

"How'd I know?" Dean asked incredulously, almost offended. "Because I go through the exact same thing! So does Sam! Because at night my head goes through a rotation of being back in Hell, watching Dad get possessed by Yellow Eyes, watching Sam tumble into the cage, and coming back to Beacon Hills for your funeral because I wasn't fast enough to save you!"

"Dean..." Stiles began, alarmed at the emotion rolling from Dean's voice. He hadn't been expecting this.

But Dean wasn't done. "Our whole life is a nightmare, Stiles!" he roared. "You think that's just going to go away when we're asleep? It sucks but that's what hunting does to you, and you find a way to deal. So yeah, when I see you ripped apart by a pack of wolves for the eleven millionth time, I count my fingers and am more than happy to wake up in a world where I can actually do something about the monsters." Dean stopped now, breathing heavily, and Stiles didn't dare say a word. "Look," Dean began again, softer now. "In the span of two weeks you died and trusted your very dangerous friends with a secret you had been repressing for years. Under duress, I might add. It's not going to go away like that. You're worried about the side effects of your freaky sacrifice, you're worried about what your friends think of you, you're worried about accidentally hurting them. Those feelings get transported into your dreams. There's nothing supernatural about it. But Stiles, the more you talk about it, the more you confront your fears about your new situation, the more it'll probably go away. And Sam or I are a phone call away."

"Dean... thank you." Stiles said softly, at a loss for any other words, beginning to feel hopeful.

"Anytime." Dean said. "Call me if anything changes. You're going to be fine, Stiles. Now go to sleep."

Against his brother's wishes, Stiles hit the books, searching for any creature dream-related. Pouring over his books, it took him about an hour to realize that the words on the pages weren't making any sense, weren't actually words at all, just a bunch of jumbled letters. Horrified, Stiles flipped through every page of the book, desperate for some of it to be clear, but every page was the same mumble of jumbled letters. Frantic, Stiles reached for his Calculus textbook, only to find the same horror. Paragraphs of explanations were alphabetic jambalaya, and derivatives and formulas were full of senseless symbols that did not even resemble numbers and variables. Even the graphs were wrong, lines twisted into unrecognizable, meaningless shapes. Stiles shut both books loudly, closing his eyes and leaning forward, trying to calm himself down by listening to his breathing. It wasn't working. Dean said you couldn't read in dreams. But he wasn't dreaming, was he? _Was he?_

The next morning, Monday, one week after Alexander, Stiles screamed himself awake and went to school, trying to subtly deal with the fact that words were slipping through his fingers. He dozed off in Art class and apologized to the teacher, only for her to assure him that he had been perfectly attentive. He ran his nightmares through his head, and began to notice things during the day. One, there was a new girl in his history class, who was pretty cute but obviously hiding something. It was a shame, Scott seemed to take an interest in her. Two, Scott was acting weird. He was hiding it well, but Stiles was a master at detecting. Scott's palms were weirdly red sometimes, like they had been hurriedly washed of blood, and dried blood was more and more frequently being caked under his fingernails. And every chance he got, he checked his reflection, as if making sure his eyes weren't glowing red. Three: Allison was acting weird, too. She was irritable, and twitchy, and her hands were shaking more often than not. Her eyes would occasionally dart around the room, looking for exits, like a trapped animal. And her pupils were blown wide, as if she were trying to see through the dark, not standing in California sunlight. She looked much worse for wear than when Stiles had taken her to school. Stiles noticed all of this on Monday and confirmed his suspicions on Tuesday. Whatever had happened to him, Scott, and Allison two weeks ago was beginning to affect them seriously, and it looked like both of Stiles' friends were suffering as much as he was. Maybe it was time to stop facing it alone.

Stiles ment to talk to them, he really did. But on Wednesday, he started losing time.

It was little things at first.. Stiles would be eating a sandwich in the kitchen, then standing in his bedroom five minutes later without any memory of walking up the stairs. Stiles would be suffering through his homework only to find himself seconds later reading one of the lore books Sam had given him, strange symbols doodled on the margin in his handwriting. Each instant of lost time was five minutes or less, but it built up enough over the short span of a few days that Stiles was beginning to grow worried. When he went to bed at night, he was afraid of tormenting nightmares, yes, but also the fear that his body might move of its own volition. He spent class the next day trying to read the same lore book he had found himself with, looking for clues, but drawing a blank at the swimming words. A familiar sense of dread was creeping in his gut, and he was meaning to talk to Scott about it, or his brothers...

...But Scott beat him to the punch. After suffering through Thursday, Friday, and Saturday with little sleep, noticing his blackouts growing longer and more frequent, words being legible less and less often, Stiles called his brothers on Sunday and got a voicemail. All 27 times. The following day, that Monday, Lydia finally corralled him, Allison, and Scott together to confront their issues, but not before Stiles had a dream that his entire Econ class was speaking to him in sign language. After a brief and irritable discussion at lunch, it turned out Scott was afraid to turn, Allison was seeing apparitions of Kate, and Isaac was fairly certain they were all going crazy.

Isaac seemed to be, for once, the only sane one.

Then that Kira girl came over to their table, the one who was obviously hiding something, and started spouting information about Bardo, and while she was talking, everyone was subtly glancing at Stiles to see if this was true. When she walked away, they all leaned forward to discuss.

"She says we're going to die." Allison said with mortification.

"Stiles, does anything she said sound familiar?" Lydia implored.

Stiles frowned, his sluggish brain doing its best to ponder. "Everything Kira described has been happening to us," he began. "But I've got two brothers who were raised from the dead, and they've never experienced this. Then again, that was Judeo-Christian magic, not Druish magic. I don't think we can base our experiences off of Sam and Dean's. So yes, Kira could be right, and we could die. Again."

"And that part about Kate being a demon?" Allison asked.

Stiles shook his head. "The word you're looking for is vengeful spirit, but it doesn't actually matter. Kate is entirely in your imagination, just like my nightmares." But just to be sure, he counted his fingers. Ten, for now.

When he and Scott went to Deaton's later that day, Stiles' horror in finding out there was a door open in his mind was only quelled slightly by the anti-possession symbol inked into his chest. Stiles meant to call his brothers, or Bobby, and tell them that something was wrong with him and he didn't know how to fix it, had no freaking clue, he really did...

...But then his dad approached him about an old case, some family crashing into the woods on the night of a full moon eight years ago. And Stiles, desperate for some normalcy, desperate for something to focus on that wasn't nightmares of him murdering his friends, took the case. And he and Scott were once again going into the woods looking for a dead body, only now they were both a little worse for the wear. Stiles felt like an open wound, like the door ajar in his head or whatever the fuck was happening was an invitation for any one of the powerful enemies his family has made to come and seek revenge. But nothing happened. Until Malia the coyote appeared in the woods, and Scott chased after her. Left behind, Stiles searched the car wreck, looking for anything else of use, when suddenly he wasn't at the car wreck, he was crashing into Scott somewhere else in the woods. He had lost time again, only this time he had taken off running.

The thought chilled Stiles to the core. He was definitely awake during his blackouts, then. This was proof. Everything earlier could have been sleepwalking, even the writing in the notebook, but Scott had said Stiles was actively pursuing him, had tactfully looped around to meet up with him, had been shouting his name. He had to have been conscious to do that, and Stiles grew worried. If he could interact with other people while blacked out, could he accidentally hurt them?

His sleep that night was fitful and miserable, wracked with guilt and fear. The next morning, the hunt for Malia continued, as did the hope that Scott, Stiles, and Allison would snap out of it. He could see how worried Isaac and Lydia were, how they glanced at eachother with heavy concern when they thought he wasn't looking. Kira seemed worried too, especially after the panic attack he had in History and in spite of Malia attacking her at lunch, and Stiles found it nice of her. He even nudged Scott to go talk to her. Heck, she might be hiding things, but then again, so was he.

A fact he was reminded of brutally upon the reappearance of Ethan and Aiden. Ethan and Aiden, who didn't know that Stiles was a hunter, something he was grateful of. When they pounced on Scott in Derek's loft, beating him into submission, trying to get him to transform, Stiles had instinctively grabbed Lydia and backed into a corner, but he couldn't find it in himself to look away. Stiles watched, mesmerized, as Scott's resolve weakened, as his blood was spilt, running off of Derek's table and on to the floor, a river of rubies. It was almost beautiful.

 _He deserves it._

What? No. Stiles shook his head, clearing it, horrified that the thought had surfaced, wondering where it had come from. Scott didn't deserve this, no one deserved this... actually, this should probably be stopped.

"You help too much." Ethan told Aiden as he dragged back his brother's fist, and Stiles worried that he had helped too little, that he should have broken up the fight sooner.

By the time they were ready to hunt Malia, Stiles was frazzled and irritable and his brain was fried. The drive to the woods had been stressful due to not being able to read street signs, and the total number of hours he had slept since Sunday was probably less than 5. Allison's hands were shaky, Isaac and Lydia were laden with worry, Scott was afraid to do the one thing that would ensure their success, and at this point, Dean's voicemail inbox was full. Yeah, this was going to end well.

And Stiles was spot on. Lydia's foot got caught in the one trap Stiles knew nothing about, and for the first time in years, he felt truly useless. But then he heard Sam's voice in his head, a memory about his older brother explaining springs and gears, and, taking a chance, Stiles actually saved Lydia from getting her leg chopped off. And Allison made the shot. And Scott roared. And they saved Malia, and Stiles could read the rearview mirror.

And Stiles, giddy from the success, made a mistake. Convinced that the door in his mind was shut, convinced that all of his problems over the past two weeks were entirely his tortured brain and not something more sinister, desperate to believe that everything was finally over, Stiles made a very big mistake. He began to relax.

Which is of course when everything went wrong.


	2. The Deepest Blues Are Black

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! Ok, so, not all updates are going to be this quick. Some of them will be quite slow, but in the mean time, here's another chapter! This chapter takes place in the space between episodes 14 and 15 (1 day) and the first half or so of episode 15 (Galvanize.) As I've said before, I'm taking some liberties and changing some things, but the main storyline remains intact. As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 2

The Deepest Blues Are Black

Everything didn't go wrong at first. The night after rescuing Malia, October 28th, Stiles slept soundly and dreamlessly for the first time since the appearance of the Darach. With Stiles' brain on an appropriate amount of sleep, he was finally able to regain his whirring, multitasking mind, which settled on puzzling over his brothers' lack of contact, and whatever problem they were having with Castiel. Of course, the other part of his brain that was sick of worrying about unsettling things was set to the task of figuring out what to do during Mischief Night. Almost immediately, the perfect idea dropped into his head, and Stiles couldn't help the sneaking grin that spread across his face as he drove to school. School that day, much to his relief, was steadily boring, only disturbed by Stiles' quiet, ever-present worry about his brothers. There were no panic attacks, no not-quite-dreams during class, no freaking out. Stiles couldn't have been happier, and it bled into the entire pack. Scott was clapping people heartily on the shoulder more than usual, Allison was beaming widely instead of her usual demure demeanor, Isaac wasn't scowling so often, even Lydia was being nicer to everyone.

"Hey," Allison said, ambushing Scott and Stiles as they were leaving history, Scott not-so-subtly watching Kira as she drifted away from them. "Are you guys alright?"

"Yeah." Scott said as Stiles nodded his head. "Yeah, we're alright. I haven't had any trouble transforming, and Stiles didn't have any panic attacks or weird dreams."

Allison smiled and relaxed against the wall, as easygoing as Stiles had ever seen her as she watched them fish their books out of their lockers. "Is it really over?" she dared ask.

"Looks like." Scott said happily, and he and Allison shared a smile that warmed Stiles' heart. They were okay. They were all okay.

"Stiles," Allison began, looking past Scott to make eye contact with him. "What time are you coming over?"

Scott's brow furrowed in confusion, but Stiles, absorbed in hunting down his blue highlighter deep within the recesses of his locker, missed it. "Uh... 8?" he said, searching haphazardly.. _Where did I put the damn thing?_ "Lydia's coming over to help me study for Econ at around 6, so yeah, we should be done by 8."

"What's at eight?" a new voice said, and Stiles looked up to see Isaac, newly materialized and hovering by Allison's shoulder. _Subtle..._

Grinning smugly, and fully embracing the approach of Mischief Night, Stiles leveled a challenging glare at Isaac and said, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Scott stifled a laugh as Isaac nearly slid off the wall he was leaning on, gazing at Stiles in horror.

Allison scoffed. "Stiles and I are _training._ " she said patronizingly. "Honestly, you two..." Shaking her head with a smile, Allison peeled herself off of the wall and drifted away, grabbing Lydia's wrist as she headed towards the cafeteria. Isaac stared after her with a none-too-subtle look of awe.

"Alright, Stiles, I'm going to head to lunch." Scott said, clapping him on the back as he shut his locker with a _thunk!_ "Isaac, do you need a ride home?"

"Yeah, that'd be great." Isaac said, and then it was just him and Stiles, who was still rifling through his locker. "What are you even looking for?"

"My blue highlighter." Stiles mumbled.

"Oh, um..." Isaac began sheepishly, and Stiles stopped his search to shoot Isaac an inquisitive look. "I- uh, I may have borrowed it from Scott. And I may have accidentally broken it. Sorry."

Stiles shut his locker with an angry _thwack!_ and faced Isaac, crossing his arms and staring him down. "Remind me why we keep you around, Isaac." he said, and Isaac had the decency to look guilty.

"I'm sorry." Isaac said again, looking crestfallen.

"You owe me a new highlighter." Stiles said, and he marched away towards lunch, Isaac carefully trailing after him.

8 p.m. that night found Stiles at the Argent's apartment, standing shoulder to shoulder with Allison while Chris glowered at the pair of them behind his desk. On his desk were a vast assortment of guns and knives, and behind Stiles and Allison was a closed door with two targets nailed to it at eye-level height. In his right hand, Chris held a stopwatch which he brandished threateningly.

"Pick a gun." he said. "Take it apart, put it back together, put it down, take a knife, and throw it at the target behind you. I'll be timing you. Ready... GO!"

Stiles grasped the first gun closest to him, a handheld similar to the one Sam always carried. Smirking, he dismantled it with ease, keeping track of all the little parts and screws, before reassembling it in a flurry of fingers. He then picked up a knife, one of Allison's ring daggers, and turned and threw it the way Dean had taught him. Stiles hit his target's bull's-eye. Allison hit hers a second later.

Chris stopped the watch with a sigh. "Allison has the better form, but Stiles has the better time. Again."

Stiles, comfortable with the task, let his mind wander as he over and over again assembled guns and threw knives. It had been Chris' idea, training together, but he had been reluctant to implement it until he knew Stiles and Allison were in their right minds. Since this was the first day of that blessed occurrence, this was also the first meeting. _And already I'm regretting it._ Stiles thought, as his finger got painfully pinched in his gun.

"Stiles has the better form, but Allison has the better time. Again."

12:15 that night found Stiles and Scott sneaking into Coach's office, moonlight guiding their way as they unbolted everything they could find and placed the screws in a cheerfully wrapped present, cackling all the while.

"This idea is brilliant, Stiles!" Scott commended as he attacked Coach's chair with a screwdriver. "How'd you come up with it?"

"Honestly, I don't know." Stiles said contently as he pulled out the nails hanging Coach's pictures from the wall. "It just kind of dropped into my head, but right away I knew it was the right one."

"Okay, then." Scott huffed as he stood up, the chair now a puddle of parts and plastic. He nudged it with his foot to make sure everything had been unbolted. "Well, I'm done with the chair, I think if we try really hard, we can unhook something from the des-" Scott looked up from the floor and he paused, concerned. "Stiles, what are you doing?"

Stiles' hand was wrapped around a particularly stubborn nail clinging to the wall. "What does it look like? I'm pulling out nails."

"With your bare hands?" Scott asked, a tad disbelievingly. His head titled to the side as he analyzed Stiles' unblemished hands.

"Well, yeah." Stiles said, not seeing the problem.

"Stiles, those things are in pretty deep." Scott said, concerned. " _I_ could probably pull them out. But not a human, not without cutting yourself, at least."

A flutter of worry flickered through his heart, but Stiles refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he shrugged. "I guess I'm just stronger than I realize." he said instead. "Hunting has a habit of building muscle. I probably am stronger than the average 17-year-old."

Scott frowned thoughtfully, but had no desire to dig deeper. "Sounds plausible, I guess. About this desk..."

Stiles remained undisturbed, and as he collapsed into bed at 1:00 a.m, and exhausted by both the training and the prank-pulling, he expected another victorious night of dreamless sleep.

Seven hours later, he woke up screaming. Holding his pounding head in his hands, Stiles shuddered as he remembered the final, terrible dream that had woken him.

 _He was running in the woods, running after Malia. Lydia was running behind him, screaming frantically, waving her arms in a desperate attempt for his attention, but her words were garbled and indistinguishable from white noise. The sky above him was black, blacker than demon eyes, blacker than Scott's wounded blood, blacker than night itself. He was finally gaining on Malia, and he put forth a final burst of speed- only to have a sudden, sharp pain burst through his heart. Gasping, he looked down and saw an inky stain on his chest, a stain he knew was blood. Frenzied by the horrible agony surging through him, he clawed his shirt open, and saw a single bullet hole where his heart used to be, pulsing out black blood in time to Lydia's frantic screams. As the haze of pain threatened to pull him under, Stiles had one last piercing thought, a thought he had no proof for but instantly knew to be true._

 _Allison had shot him._

Stiles woke up screaming, clawing at his chest frantically, panting shallow, panicked breaths, tangling himself in his blankets, thrashing and lashing until finally, his breathing evened and he began to relax. He counted his fingers and stooped in relief, his head bowing down as the exhaustion from his freak-out overtook he looked at his unblemished shirt and took a deep breath.

Which is when he saw it. An inky-black stain, blooming right over his heart.

Stiles' breath hitched as panic overtook him once again, and he was scratching and clawing at his shirt with as much fervor as he had had in his dream. Once it was off, and tossed to a forgotten corner of his floor, Stiles closed his eyes in fear and placed his hand over his heart, feeling for a bullet wound, but found nothing except smooth skin and a thin, wet substance that was definitely not blood. Peering open one of his eyes cautiously, Stiles looked at the inky-black substance seeping through his fingers... No, not inky-black. Ink. Stiles' heart was covered in ink. But that meant...

Stiles' eyes widened in horror, his mouth open in a silent scream, as he removed his hand from his heart and saw a runny, misshapen, watered down image that was once his anti-possession tattoo. At this point, half of his chest was covered in dripping ink, and it looked- well, it looked like it had _melted_ off of him. Stiles was trapped in a stare, as with each passing second, more and more of the symbol erased, and more and more ink was soaking his skin.

Eventually, Stiles mustered enough sense to reach for his cell phone on the bedside table. He pressed '1', and let it ring.

 _This is Dean Winchester, leave your name, number, and nightmare at the tone. *BEEP*_

Stiles brought the phone to his ear with a shaky hand, staring at the wall across from him blankly. "Dean..."he croaked. "Something's...uh... Something's happening. Something bad. I know you're busy with Cas, okay, I _know..._ But my dreams are getting worse again. I can't- I can't- your tricks aren't working and I _can't._ And I just woke up and my anti-possession tattoo _melted off my body._ Call me back. Please."

Stiles' phone rolled out of his hand and on to the floor, his eyes still staring blankly at the wall across from him. It was this position that his father found him in, 30 minutes later.

Stiles didn't say anything about his tattoo at school that day. For one, there were actually bigger things to worry about. But his other reason was much more worrying. Stiles was losing sleep, and losing time... He didn't want to lose his mind, too. His skin burned where his tattoo should be, but he didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to show it to Scott, on the off chance that it was actually still there. Seeing his anti-possession tattoo melt off was, believably, less weird than _imagining_ his anti-possession tattoo melt off, and Stiles wasn't sure which one was real. It was Schrodinger's sanity. As long as he didn't look, Stiles could pretend he was alright. It scared him to near death, but Stiles at this point wasn't, couldn't be sure what was real.

He was pretty sure that school day was real, though, insane as it was. The news broke in the morning that William Barrow, mass murderer extraordinaire, was on the loose. The doctors were frantic, the police were searching the entire town, but Stiles wasn't sure why they bothered. He would come to the high school. Stiles knew, just as surely as he knew something was wrong to him, a disease pumping through his blood. Barrow would come to the school, chase the children with glowing eyes, and Stiles, human extraordinaire, would have to stop him. If he was sane enough.

"We have to find him." Scott said, and Stiles couldn't help but be proud of how everyone, (even the twins, which was a whole new level of weird Stiles would get to in a second) agreed immediately.

The hallways were empty as Stiles, Allison, Lydia, Isaac, Scott, and the twins stalked through them, something finally going right as Stiles worked on a plan.

The hunt for Barrow started off well enough. Allison was freaking out, Isaac was freaking out, Lydia was hearing buzzing noises, but Stiles had his head screwed on enough to construct a game plan for the search: sneak Allison out of the school so she can read the bestiary, send the werewolves into the basement, guard Lydia while she attempts to sense Barrow, and keep his dad at the school as long as humanly possible. He calls his brothers again. Voicemail.

The first snag was what Stiles feared would happen the moment his nightmares returned. He lost time. One moment, he separated from Allison and company to implement their plan. He was running towards the science hallway, a lockpick in his pocket, intent on searching the empty classrooms for Barrow. The next thing Stiles knew, he was running into Scott in the same hallway, going in the opposite direction, chalk lightly dusting his fingers (what the hell). Stiles looked around, disoriented, and saw the hallway full of students. He had been out for at least 20 minutes, enough time for the period to end. He tried not to freak out as he realized that he had had the longest blackout ever. Scott, bless him, noticed anyway.

"Stiles?" Scott asked, an arm slung around his shoulders in a second. "Are you ok? Your heart's racing, I can smell the adrenaline from here. Did you find him?"

Stiles wanted nothing more than to sink into Scott's arm and keep sinking, all the way till his head rested on the floor, but he couldn't. Exhaustion and fear were gnawing at him but he had to try to play it off. More was at stake here than his sanity. It could be the lives of his entire high school.

"I didn't find him." Stiles reassured. "I'm fine." Scott's eyes narrowed in disbelief, and Stiles didn't blame him. Even if Stiles had a talent with lying to werewolves, it didn't take a werewolf to see that he was _not fine._ It only took one day for the dark circles to return, and if Scott could smell his adrenaline, he was probably back to being jumpy.

"Stiles," Scott said evenly, "you are obviously not fine. Look, I don't know if we're going to find Barrow today, but even if we don't, you need to go home and get some rest. Kira's parents invited me over for dinner tonight, but I'll try to swing by after, ok?"

"You're starting to sound like Dean." Stiles grumbled, but part of him was relieved that some portion of this wasn't in his head. That Scott was noticing. That he wasn't alone.

Scott smiled. "Maybe cause he and I are both just looking out for you." he said, and then with a final one-armed hug, he was gone, and Stiles was alone with the hunt.

When Scott vanished, he took his aura of calm and peace with him, and Stiles' anxieties crashed back into him.

Stiles' brothers had taught him that the worst thing to lose on a hunt wasn't your phone or your gun, it was your mind, and Stiles was slowly, surely, walking that line. He knew this, as his sharp eyes swept the school, as his sure feet carried him forward. He knew he was flirting with something dangerous and sooner or later it was going to retaliate. It wasn't the nemeton, it wasn't his sacrifice to a magic tree. It was something else. Scott and Allison were fine, Stiles could see that now. He wasn't. His body was moving of its own accord, walking and talking (and picking up chalk?). And in that dream last night, among the running and the black sky, Stiles had felt something odd, almost like an extra presence. There was something else in his head, something foreign and dangerous, and as soon as Lydia was safe, as his classmates were safe, Stiles would hit every lore book he could get his hands on until he found what was wrong with him (if it let him read.) But at this moment, Stiles had a job to do. He was a hunter, and he was hunting Barrow. And coming up frustratingly blank.

The second snag was his dad. His dad, bless him, had known about the supernatural as long as he had known Claudia Stilinski. Yet he always drew the line at the same spot: evidence over intuition. Stiles knew, as soon as it was mentioned, that the anonymous tip was fake, but it didn't matter. Stiles had had this argument with his dad hundreds of times, all with the same result. The police were leaving the school. It was up to Stiles and the wolves, now.

"Stiles, be careful." his dad said as he backed away, taking all hope with him. "I don't care what John taught you, you can't face down a mass murderer on your own. For god's sake, be careful."

This wasn't the first time the weight of hundreds had rested on the shoulders of a Winchester. But with company in his head, this was the first time Stiles had felt unworthy to take that weight. As he and Lydia moved through the school, every shadow seemed menacing, every loud noise a trigger, and Stiles could not help but wonder if the next one would be the switch that locked him out of his body. Lydia took notice.

She said nothing, though, until after Allison had crawled out of a window and out of sight, until the only other hunter was out of earshot.

"Allison and Scott are fine." she said, out of the blue, as Stiles eyed the fire alarm with stupid determination. "Why aren't you?"

"I wish I knew." Stiles mumbled. "Or, actually, I wish I didn't know. But we have bigger problems." Yep, the fire alarm was the way to go. "I have an idea..."

In retrospect, pulling the fire alarm during an emergency lockdown might not have been the best idea. But it got all of the students out of the school. It got Isaac, Scott, Aiden and Ethan out of the basement, it bought Stiles time to collect himself.

"Stiles, go home." Lydia said, once it became evident that all anyone could do was wait. And Stiles, uncharacteristically, listened.

"Isaac, go with him." Lydia ordered, and Stiles shrugged in response to Isaac's questioning glance.

Stiles was on autopilot as he started his jeep, Isaac settling into the seat next to him. Vaguely, he registered Lydia leaving with Aiden, and Ethan darting off to find Danny as he pulled out of the parking lot.

"Why do you think Lydia wanted me to stay with you?" Isaac asked, fidgeting nervously with his hands, eyeing the twins with something less-than-friendly.

"She's worried." Stiles said. "Barrow was supposed to be at the school and he wasn't, which means he could be anywhere. She doesn't want anyone to be on their own." In honesty, Stiles was glad for Lydia's considerate thinking. With his body moving of it's own accord now, he didn't want to be alone, either.

Isaac hummed. "Why would she think he'd go to the school?" he asked incredulously. "You'd think he'd lay low first, what with being a fugitive."

"I thought he was at the school, too." Stiles said, and that shut Isaac up. For all the bravado Isaac had shown three weeks ago, it was clear that he was still, in some capacity, afraid of Stiles.

Stiles probably shouldn't enjoy that as much as he did.

They drove the remainder of the way in silence, and as the silence wore on, Isaac grew more and more agitated. It wasn't just his hands, now. His feet were tapping an incessant rhythm, and even his eye was twitching.

"What?" Stiles demanded finally, unable to take it anymore.

"You're not this quiet!" Isaac blurted, then shrunk away as much as possible, afraid of retaliation.

Stiles sighed. "It's fine. You're right. I'm just-" _tired. Worried. Anxious. Insane._ "-thinking."

"About Barrow?"

 _About how there's something in my head. There's something in my head. There's something in my head._

"Yeah, about Barrow."

"Don't worry, Stiles." Isaac said in a ghost of a reassurance. "We'll find him."

Stiles tried to smile as they pulled up to his driveway. He really did. But too many worries were pulling him down.

Isaac noticed. He frowned, softly, and leaned back, making it clear that we wasn't getting out of the blue jeep, not until Stiles talked.

"You're not fine, Stiles."

"No," Stiles said slowly, "I'm not." He'd made a mistake in facing the nemeton alone before. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

"Do you know what's wrong?" Isaac asked. He gingerly touched his finger to Stiles' wrist, and watched the black lines seep into his own skin, inching up his arm like blood vessels.

Stiles felt his headache abate slightly, and leaned back and closed his eyes.

"Something's in my head." Stiles whispered, and Isaac leaned forward in alarm.

"How do you know?" he demanded.

"How do you know when there's a splinter in your foot?" Stiles demanded right back, his fists clenching, stress easily turning into anger, but he wasn't angry at Isaac. "Something doesn't feel right!"

He was angry, at himself for relaxing, at Dean for not answering, at Cas for breaking the world, at Sam for letting him. But more than that, he was angry at Allison. Angry for making him train with her, angry for her demands, angry for dragging him into a hunting community he didn't want, angry for shooting him in the chest-

"Stiles!" Isaac shouted. "Calm down!" Alarmed, Isaac undid his seatbelt and clamored out of the car, before running over to Stiles' side and pulling him out, too. He set Stiles down so his back was against the bottom of the jeep, and waited.

Stiles blinked up at Isaac and took a deep breath, drained and exhausted. It wasn't real. The anger wasn't real. The _thing,_ whatever was messing with him, had made up the anger because Allison hadn't actually shot him in the chest.

"Are you going to be alright?" Isaac asked cautiously, as Stiles regained control of his emotions.

"For now." Stiles mumbled. There was no use lying to himself, or to Isaac. "Thank you." He looked up at Isaac, and saw the blue sky behind him.

It had felt so real. The anger had felt so real because the dream had felt so real. The woods around him had been the correct preserve. Lydia's voice had sounded just right. The pain in his chest had been acute and agonizing. The only thing that had been misplaced was the black sky.

Isaac's hand rested on Stiles' shoulder and Stiles watched the black lines of his pain snake up Isaac's wrist. It was the same shade. Stiles shuddered and averted his eyes, looking up again at the blue sky. _This is real._ As long as the sky was blue, it was real.

But maybe the sky in his dream had been blue. Deep enough blue to be black.


	3. Erase, Replace

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! So, this chapter continues the thread with episode three of season 3b, and another Winchester cameo. There is a major stretch of time from when Stiles goes home from school and when he and Lydia go back to it at night, so I decided to fill it with some angst. Don't worry, the plot review will be over soon and we'll get to the real story, but before that I do need to set it up. This chapter marks the end of episode three, and episode four will be picked up in the next one. The publishing date of that one is currently unknown. Thanks to everyone who's left a review, and as always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 3

Erase/Replace

"Are you sure you're going to be alright?" Isaac mumbled, head downcast as he draped himself across the doorway to Stiles' bedroom. Stiles was inside, washing his scraped hands with a washcloth. Apparently collapsing on asphalt does that.

"Yeah." Stiles softly reassured, focusing on his hands, trying not to notice the guilt radiating off of Isaac in waves. Each time one crashed into him Stiles winced. Lydia didn't want them to split up, Lydia didn't want them to be alone... but someone needs to go out and look for Barrow and it can't be him.

"I feel like I shouldn't leave you alone." Isaac said earnestly, trying as much as Stiles not to look the other in the eye, shifting his feet uncomfortably. He didn't want to be here. It was obvious by his slight frown, his impatient stance, the way his eyes nervously glanced out the window. Stiles made Isaac uncomfortable, and the collapse outside hadn't helped. It was fine. Stiles didn't want Isaac there either.

Stiles sighed deeply, trying to shrug off Isaac's concern. "I told you." he said with a strained smile, tossing the bloody washcloth to the floor in a movement that made Isaac wince. "I had a bad dream last night. I didn't get a lot of sleep. School today wasn't exactly stress-free, and it all came to a head when I got home. That's it."

"I thought your bad dreams ended with the door closing." Isaac said tentatively.

"Not every bad dream is magic induced." Stiles said, and immediately regretted it, because of course Isaac would know that.

"You said something was in your head." Isaac whispered, looking up and meeting Stiles' eyes, and in that moment Stiles' heart shattered, because yeah, he had said that. Isaac looked at him with a lot of things in that moment. Worry, reproach, anxiety, and for a heartbeat, Stiles was tempted to ask him to stay. There was something in his head. The last thing he wanted was to be alone.

He almost did it. Both of them were frozen in time, Stiles with his hands mid throw, and Isaac draped over the doorway, his mouth parted from the end of his sentence, and it would have been too easy to shatter the silence. But then something else flashed across Isaac's eyes, some emotion Stiles knew all too well: fear. Isaac looked at him with concern but still managed to have an ounce of fear. Of him.

No, that wouldn't do. Stiles felt the moment shatter as he turned his back on Isaac, making to get something out of his backpack. He would not tolerate people afraid of him, and he certainly wouldn't foist his company upon him. Stiles needed to do research and call his family, and to do that, he needed to be himself. His unmasked, hunter self. He couldn't slip into his natural skin if someone near him was afraid of what he really was.

Stiles turned his back on Isaac, and Isaac seemed to take the hint. "I should go." he offered, but his voice carried a hint of sadness, and Stiles chastised himself for forgetting that Isaac was one of the most observant out of them all. The quiet ones see and hear everything. "Scott might need me."

"Yeah." Stiles said regretfully, and he heard Isaac zip his sweatshirt and collect himself. "If that is where you're going."

The noises stopped, and Stiles felt rather than heard Isaac pause, suspended in motion, holding his breath as he waited for the accusation.

"What do you mean?"

"Scott has a dinner date." Stiles said, and he only sounded a little bit taunting. He turned his head to the right and could barely make out Isaac's cautious shadow. "He's off duty. I know there's more pressing matters at hand, Isaac, but be sure to say hi to Allison for me."

The shadow shifted into a figure of shame and rage, and made to step forward and demand answers, but Stiles merely chuckled. "Easy." he said. "Getting murdered isn't on my to-do list today, but you're welcome to try." The shadow receded, and the small part of Stiles that still got scared sometimes breathed in relief.

"How did you-"

"Everyone knows, you idiot." Stiles interrupted with an eyeroll. "Including Scott. And I don't think anyone besides him actually cares. I sure don't. So get out of my house and be done with it."

Isaac left, in a whirl of motion and without another word, and Stiles felt a brief stab of victory which temporarily numbed the crippling anxiety. Alone in his room, his mask fell, and worry settled over his heart as he reached for his phone.

He called Dean. And this time, Dean picked up.

"Stiles?" Dean asked, "is everything ok?"

"Take a guess." Stiles spat, pacing furiously. Anger rose to the surface at the instant of Dean's voice, and it was all Stiles could do to hold it back.

"I'm sorry." Dean said, and for once he sounded sincere. "I would have called back if I had been able to. A lot's happened. Do you want the long version or the short version?"

"Short version." Stiles said, remembering that his brothers' lives were much more dangerous than his, and for a moment, concern for Dean and Sam drowned out his worry at losing his mind. For a moment.

Dean sighed with heavy anguish. "Cas... went crazy. He had this brilliant idea to open purgatory, and eat the souls. He succeeded, and got drunk on power. He killed Raphael, nearly killed Crowley, and did something to Sam..." Dean's voice broke off with a choke, and Stiles' stomach swooped. They just got Sam back. They couldn't lose him. "He broke the wall."

"Dean..." Stiles said, unsure how to ask, but filled with a burning need to know. "Is Sam-"

"Sam's fine." Dean said coldly, his compose back. "At least, he says he is. Cas, however, is on a power trip. He's left us and Bobby alone for now, but the rest of the world isn't too lucky. Cas, see, he's going around pretending to be God. What's scary is, he has enough power to back it up."

Stiles gulped. "Do you think he'll come here?"

"Hard to say." Dean said. "I doubt it, but if he does, call me, I might be able to talk some sense into him. Listen, Sam, Bobby, Crowley and I have a plan-"

"-Crowley?" Stiles questioned.

"-and we're implementing it tonight, so I need to go on radio silence now. But I listened to your voicemail."

"And?" Stiles prompted, feeling hope and dread simultaneously.

"And kid, I think you just need to get some sleep. We live a hard life. Sometimes it takes its toll."

"Dean, there's something in my head!" Stiles shrieked, angry and alarmed and anxious all at once. Panic, that's what it was. It was panic, and his breath was coming shorter, and his hand was beginning to shake, and he had to be right, Dean had to see that. There was something in his head. There had to be.

"We've all had something in our heads!" Dean roared back, and he must have brushed over a lot because he sounded far too ragged. "Sam had one in his head _three days ago_ before Cas broke it down and broke the world and went insane-"

"I'm going insane!" Stiles all-but-whaled into the phone, and his other hand was shaking. Stiles analyzed the pair with a detached fascination as he listened to Dean's response.

"Well I hate to break it to you, Stiles!" Dean said, "But I'm a little more concerned about the six-foot-tall walking _nuclear weapon._ Do you want the world to end?"

"I want to be in my right mind!" Stiles yelled, sinking to his knees, the oncoming panic attack being too much for his legs to handle, and Lydia was right, he shouldn't have been left alone-

"You are in your right mind!" Dean shouted back, but Stiles didn't register it. He was too busy trying to lengthen his rapidly decreasing breaths-

"Stiles!" Dean yelled, but Stiles didn't hear, his hand was fisting into his blankets as he kneeled by his bed, scrambling for purchase as he waited for the wave of breathlessness to hit him-

"Stiles!" Dean shouted again, and now there was a touch of annoyance coloring his tone, but Stiles couldn't be bothered, his toes were curling as he struggled to clamor to his feet-

"Stiles!" Dean roared. "Answer me!" and he sounded full-on panicked now, gone was the anger, and Stiles struggled to reach the phone and assure Dean that everything was alright but he couldn't seem to find the right words, for once he didn't have any words-

"Stiles!" A new voice said, strong and powerful and close, and Stiles looked up to see Lydia, redheaded goddess, towering over him with cold fury and a halo of authority as invisible hands grasped his shoulders and hauled him to his feet and kept him there.

"Stiles!" Lydia said, softer now, more worried, as she hurriedly approached him and cupped his cheek, looking into his eyes. He tried to look into hers but they swam, and Stiles should be more focused on breathing anyway, or maybe talking to Dean-

"Stiles!" A new voice thundered, Aiden, loud, close, behind his ear, and Stiles flinched as it echoed around his skull, well,everything was echoing and swimming, and Stiles felt his shoulders shake as some strong force rattled him down to his bones-

-He wakes up on his bed, Lydia leaning over him as she pats his forehead with a damp washcloth. Aiden was nowhere to be seen.

"Lydia...' he began, but she holds up a hand, stopping him.

"You've been out for 20 minutes." Lydia said, and a chill goes through him because that's how long he was out last time. "I told Dean you were fine and hung up on him. I know there's something you're not telling me, but if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. When you're feeling up to it, we can study physics."

Stiles really did admire her professionalism. And he absolutely did not want to talk about it. But he didn't want to study physics either.

Barrow was still out there, and Stiles had to do something about it. So, while Lydia poured over her textbook, or at least pretended to, Stiles went to work, clipping newspaper articles, pages of lore, and just about anything he could find to his wall. Eventually, Lydia gave up trying to study and watched him work, mumbling all the while that she was so sure Barrow had been at the school. She sounded confused, and Stiles was too. Lydia was not one to get these things wrong. But they had searched the entire building top to bottom and-

-wait a minute.

Stiles blacked out. Just as he was about to start on the Science wing.

They never searched the whole school, did they.

"Get up." Stiles said, nudging Lydia off his bed, his alarm threatening to bubble to the surface. "Get up, we're going to the school."

"Where do we start?" Lydia asked as they pulled up to the empty, slightly desolate building, and Stiles knew the answer right away.

"The Science wing."

"They're atomic numbers." Lydia said, drifting towards the chalkboard, after the horrific discovery that Barrow had been at the school, and had used ammonia to cover his scent. It was almost as horrifying as the realization that someone would have given him a key to the chemistry closet.

And someone had left him a message.

Stiles' fingers twitched as he gazed at the three chalk-written numbers and remembered the chalk dusting his fingers hours earlier. After coming from the science hallway.

 _Don't be ridiculous. It wasn't you._

"But this doesn't make any sense..." Lydia kept saying, her hand reaching for the chalk, and part of Stiles wanted to scream for her not to, it might be contagious, the other part of him knew that was insane.

Lydia wrote the K, and the I, and the Ra, and Stiles' heart plummeted through the floor. He knew Kira was hiding something.

Well now someone else knew it too.

"Scott." Stiles said after a minute, after staring at the message for a minute, because that was all he and Lydia could do. "Scott went to- Kira is- oh my god, we need to go."

They drove at least 20 miles over the speed limit, but it turned out not to matter. They found Scott passed out in the street, and Stiles' dread was only matched by Lydia's discomfort, and something finally clicked for Stiles.

"Scream, Lydia." he said, and she did, and it didn't take long to figure out where Barrow had taken Kira. In fact, the more Stiles thought about it, the more he was amazed at how quickly he came to that conclusion. It was like the answer had just dropped into his head. But that wasn't on his mind as he once again drove like a maniac towards the power plant, and once he got there, he fumbled for the only weapon at his disposal. A metal bat. Figures.

"What happened to your guns?" Lydia asked incredulously, bristling at the idea of being left behind.

"I can't keep them in the car!" he said. "What if I get pulled over?" He ran in without a second thought, going the opposite way Scott went, dodging fences and grids and way too many tempting-looking levers. Eventually he figured out that the layout of this part of the warehouse was one big giant room, and, following the sound of crackling electricity and Kira's terrified voice, Stiles positioned himself so he was opposite Scott as he approached Barrow. Hiding behind a metal grate, Stiles listened as Barrow rambled on about some old movie, and glowing eyes, and what Kira really was. Stiles was also curious. But even he was above electrocuting for answers. Just as Stiles was about to step in, A-Rod style, Scott emerged, from who-the-hell-knows where, and Stiles stayed behind the grate as he waited for things to get ugly.

Barrow was saying something odd, then, something that sounded like he was about to do something stupid and would not listen to reason, and Stiles was beginning to grow alarmed. He couldn't see anything except cold metal and gray fuse boxes from his vantage point, and so he was about to move, to fight or just be able to see, but then something tugged at his hands.

"What the-" Stiles began, looking down, but there was nothing there. It happened again. His bat. Something was tugging on his bat. Stiles looked up and saw a fuse box directly across from him, switched on and somehow magnetized. Alarmed, Stiles tried to drop the bat, but his hands wouldn't move. With a grunt, Stiles tried again, but if anything, his grip only seemed to tighten. He tried wiggling one of his fingers. Nothing. He tried moving his toes. Nothing.

Stiles tried to get up, emerge from his crouched position, but his legs were locked and his body was frozen. He couldn't move. He tried to open his mouth, scream for Scott, but other than a click in his jaw, his mouth wouldn't move. Stiles tried to sense any tightening in his chest, any shortness of breath, but there was nothing. His breathing was fine. His mind was clear. He could still hear Barrow rambling behind him. But his body wouldn't move. It was just like sleep paralysis.

Or like something else was taking control.

Stiles felt a tug on his bat again, stronger this time, and before he knew it, his body was moving. Not towards Scott, not towards conflict and salvation, but away, pitching forward towards the fuse box at the end of the line, the small gray box that was the flyswatter, and he was the fly-

-Stiles hit the box with a thud, his bat glued to the surface, his hands pinning him to the grid against his will. Barrow was still talking, the egomaniac, and Stiles, having successfully avoided electrocution, replaced his fear and confusion and giant WHAT THE HELL with hope that Scott would find him when this was over, could probably smell his fear...

But then there was a roar, a great roar, and the sound of something heavy and Scott-like being shoved into metal, and Kira was shrieking and begging and Barrow was rambling like the madman he was and the buzzing of electricity was only getting louder as it chaffed and smacked against metal as it approached its victim, and Stiles could only shut his eyes and listen as Kira and Scott simultaneously let out one last horrified plea, and there was the horrible sound of electricity meeting flesh, and suddenly. Suddenly there was a bright, white light that Stiles saw even through his eyelids, and it burned through him hot and heavy like fire, and every one of his muscles sprang alight with pain, and every one of his bones nearly shattered with the wave of energy that rolled through him, and his skin seared with the fury of it, and somewhere in a back corner of his mind, some hidden place with a terrible draft, some long-forgotten nook overshadowed by the massive sensation, a dark clot of _something_ shivered with joy and broke free, seeping into-


	4. Low

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! This is the last chapter for at least a few days. This chapter starts covering episode 4 of 3b, and the beginning of Supernatural season 7. Don't worry, there won't be a whole lot of the plot elements of season 7. I think that's it. As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 4

Low

"-and I don't even know where you left your bat, Stiles, but that is the last time you are leaving me behind in the car while you and Scott go screw up everything-"

Stiles opened his eyes with a snap and jerked the wheel of his jeep violently, sending it careening into the other (thankfully empty) lane before his wits crashed back into him and he jerked the car back, just as violently.

Lydia let out a small shriek and hit him on the arm, while Stiles, breathing heavily, looked frantically around to gauge his surroundings. He was driving. Okay. He was driving on a dark road, dark because it was still night. It was the road away from the electrical plant, and he and Lydia were the only two in the car, and the only car on the street. The lights of his jeep illuminated the path ahead in an eerie light that made Stiles shudder.

He had blacked out. Again. And instead of laying around passed out or whatever, he had been... driving?

The thought chilled Stiles to the bone. If he wasn't sure before, he definitely was now. Something was in his head.

"Lydia..." Stiles began, his voice croaking strangely. "What time is it?"

Lydia shot him a worrying look. "It's just after midnight, Stiles." she said a little too kindly. "Same as it was when you asked me two minutes ago."

Stiles shivered.

"Do you want to explain what just happened?" Lydia asked softly, her face still a little white from the scare, her concerned look only illuminated with the passing street lamps.

"I..." Stiles began, and he was about to launch into a tirade of black sky and panic attacks,and chalked fingers and splinters, but something held him back. It would have been very easy. He wanted to tell Lydia, he was actually desperate to tell Lydia, if nothing else so he wouldn't be alone while he went insane, but something held him back. No, something _actually_ held him back. Stiles actually felt his tongue curl into the back of his mouth, a warning.

The action sent a jolt of energy through Stiles' body, and fear pumped through him like blood. There was something in his head, and it was listening. And warning him, very literally, to hold his tongue.

"I thought I saw a deer." Stiles said in a rush. "Swerved to avoid it." He winced at how fake and transparent it sounded, how palpable his fear was, but if Lydia noticed, she chose not to comment.

Even with his eyes on the road, Stiles could see Lydia looking at him, analyzing him with those careful, big eyes. "You're tired." she said finally. "Why don't we change drivers."

Stiles nodded because that was an excellent idea. He shouldn't be driving anyway, what with the frequent blackouts, even if he could apparently drive during them. Not to mention, he had no idea where they were going.

Stiles pulled over to the side of the road next to a streetlamp oozing orange light, and clamored out of the jeep eagerly. Next to him, Lydia's descent was much more elegant, and within a minute they were in each other's places. Stiles took a moment to admire how Lydia's orange hair blended perfectly with the amber light around them, and then they were on their way.

Stiles wasn't very surprised when they pulled up at the sheriff's station. Nor was he surprised that at this hour, the parking lot was full and all the lights were on. Something big must have gone down. And it had probably involved him. But what?

Lydia parked the car and killed the ignition, but she made no move to get out. Taking a deep breath, like she was steeling herself to do something, Lydia turned and asked "What do you remember?" in a voice that was as quick as it was fearful.

"Uh..." Stiles said, and he tried to work around the giant, gaping hole in his memory. They were hunting down Barrow... He told Lydia to stay in the car... He grabbed his bat and ran inside... And then what?

"I ran inside after Scott." Stiles said, "And we split up." He didn't actually remember that part, but it felt true. "I didn't find anything, you probably know the rest."

"Do you?" Lydia challenged, and it was scary how on the nose she was, how close to the truth. "Surely you must remember how Barrow was so hysterical he accidentally electrocuted himself next to a fuse box, creating a massive explosion that somehow generated its own feedback loop and saved Scott, Kira, and you from any damage, and then the three of you ran outside to wait for the police."

"Yep. I remember that." Stiles said with his usual sarcastic cheer, but it sounded sour on his tongue.

"That'd be a neat trick." Lydia said acerbically, and Stiles felt his false smile melt off his face. "Cause that's our cover story. The one _you_ came up with, by the way."

Stiles twitched in alarm and a barely contained scream.

"So what really happened?"

Lydia scowled. "I don't know. All I know is that you and Scott ran in, and you, Scott and Kira ran out, after decimating the plant with enough force to blackout the entire city. The only people who know what really happened are you, Scott, and Kira. And Scott's not telling me anything."

Stiles sighed, and pressed his forehead against the window, watching the brightly lit station with trepidation. "I can't help you with that. You realize that, right?"

"I realize." Lydia said evenly. "Even if you don't say anything, Stiles, it's fairly obvious something's going on with you. I don't know if it has to do with Sam and Dean or whatever,but when you feel like sharing, we'll be here." Stiles looked over at Lydia with amazement as she smoothly removed the key from the ignition and handed it to him, before rifling through her purse and removing a large silver flashlight.

 _Huh._ Stiles thought, his brow furrowing. _That's odd, I wonder why she needs that._

It shouldn't have bothered Stiles that much. In their line of work, flashlights were more than a necessity, they were a way of life. But something was bothering Stiles, some stray idea poking around the back of his head. He glanced from Lydia to the brightly lit sheriff's station. It didn't make sense why Lydia would need the flashlight for ten feet of walking up to a brightly lit building.

And then it hit him.

"Did you... did you say city-wide blackout?" Stiles asked tentatively, straightening up from his slouching position against the door.

"Yeah." Lydia said without missing a beat, oblivious to him as she continued to rifle through her purse. "I thought I bought more batteries... Anyway, whatever the hell you two did destroyed the entire power grid. Gone. Kaput. Won't be up for a few days at least."

Stiles frowned. "So, street lamps, government buildings, even the backup generators connected to the grid..."

"Are all out." Lydia finished. "Haven't you been able to tell? All the street lamps were dark, remember? That's why you thought you saw a deer. And look at how many officers are here." She gestured to the full parking lot. "Didn't you think it odd that all the lights were off." She pointed at the brightly lit building in front of them.

Stiles remembered the amber street light they had pulled up against to change drivers, the way it blended perfectly with Lydia's hair.

"I guess not." he said tonelessly. Lydia rolled her eyes and clambered out of the car. "Hey, you go on ahead, I'll be a minute."

"Stiles, we have to give statements to the police." Lydia said gently. "This isn't optional. We're already running late as it is."

"Really?" Stiles asked, his eyes drifting away from Lydia's patronizing glare to his clasped hands. "What time is it?"

"Just after midnight." Lydia said. "Same as when you asked five minutes ago."

"Huh." Stiles said. He casually raised his thumb.

 _One._

Lydia zeroed in on the movement with beady eyes. Her lips parted and her shoulders dropped with something too similar to pity. "You think you're dreaming." she said softly. "Oh, Stiles..."

Stiles nodded, and lifted his index finger.

 _Two._

"Look at the station." Stiles said. "All the lights are on."

 _Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight._

"Look again." Lydia said urgently. "They're not, I promise. You're tired. You're imagining things."

Stiles glanced up from his hands. The station was practically oozing light.

 _Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen._

"Sorry, Lydia." Stiles said with forced nonchalance as they both gaped at his warped hands. "This is definitely a dream."

"Mr. Stilinski!"

Stiles' eyes flew open to utter darkness. Well, that wasn't true, though the furious face of Agent McCall was certainly up there on all things dark-and-sinister.

"Wha-what?" Stiles asked, looking around to find himself on a couch next to Lydia, Scott, and Kira in his dad's office, said dad glaring at him with arms crossed. The room was absent of its normal pale yellow light, instead it was lit by harsh blue lamps.

 _Right. City-wide blackout._

"Would you like to give your version of the events from earlier tonight?" Agent McCall asked patronizingly from where he stood obnoxiously against the sheriff's desk. "Or are you going to fall asleep on us again?"

Stiles shrugged. "I mean, it's pretty late." he said, glancing at his watch. 12:01, just after midnight. "But sure, yeah." Stiles leaned forward on his elbows and purposefully stroked his chin once, a motion he had seen Sam do more than once to buy himself time when buying himself time. Glancing at Scott, who was frowning at him concernedly, Lydia, who was frowning, and Kira, who just looked confused, Stiles turned back to Agent McCall with a lazy grin as hollow as his heart. "My version, yeah. Well, after we figured out where Barrow was going to take Kira, Scott, Lydia and I split up. Faster, you know, since Scott's got his bike, which I'm sure you're thrilled about him riding-"

Scott kicked him in the shin.

"Anyway," Stiles continued, not before glaring at his best friend, "We ended up getting there at the same time. Scott ran in first, what with his hero complex and all-"

"Stiles." his dad said warningly.

"-and I grabbed my bat, which I have for chasing away hooligans of course, and went after him. I told Lydia to stay in the car, because she didn't have exceptional muscle mass or a weapon, and someone had to make sure Kira was ok in case something happened to Scott and I trying to get her out. Scott and I split up again, took opposite ends of the main floor, and Scott got lucky. My side was empty, and by the time I got there..." Stiles trailed off meaningfully, daring Agent McCall to finish the sentence.

"Barrow had already electrocuted himself."

"Exactly!" Stiles exclaimed, clapping his hands for effect. "Couldn't have said it better myself."

"Very well." Agent McCall said with a huff, turning away from his clear least favorite to Scott and Kira. "And what were you two doing at her house?"

"Eating sushi..."

"Stiles." Scott said as they exited the station, Lydia staying behind with Kira to give her a ride home. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, Scott, I'm fine." Stiles said with a smile, trying not to think about orange street lights that looked too real and the fact that the last thing he remembered was running into the treatment plant.

It was exactly like Lydia had said The entire power grid was gone, and no one knew how it had happened, except for Stiles, Scott, and Kira. But Stiles didn't remember anything. And Lydia hadn't actually said that.

"You sure?" Scott asked. "Cause where the hell did you go?" One minute you were running into the power plant after me, the next you're outside with the police."

Stiles shrugged. "I got lost? That place was big, man."

Scott grasped either one of Stiles' shoulders and looked into his eyes with deep worry. "Stiles, it took the police twenty minutes to get there. After I got Kira out, I spent that entire time _looking for you._ I looked for you for _twenty minutes,_ and found nothing, and then Lydia texts me that you're outside spinning some cover story to the cops without anyone seeing you walk out. Stiles, what the hell happened?"

 _No, no._ "I could ask you the same question!" Stiles snapped, shoving Scott's hands off of his shoulders, because no, he would not think about this now. "How the hell would Barrow electrocute himself and blow out the power grid of an entire town? He was one guy! What the hell actually happened to him?"

"That was your story!" Scott shot back. "Your idea! And now you're acting like you don't remember coming up with it! If you can find a cover for it, you must know what happened!"

"Ok, so maybe I do remember!" Stiles said. "Tell me, Scott, what's Kira hiding?"

It was just a hunch. Just some pieces not fitting together, but Stiles was right on the money, cause Scott's face shut down. Gone was any remorse or worry and replacing it was awe and fear.

"I don't know..." Scott mumbled, avoiding Stiles' searching eyes. "But you saw it, Stiles. The way the electricity moved around her... what human can do that?"

What human could exit a power-fluctuating power plant unharmed and without an alpha werewolf or an entire police force noticing, and then craft an artful cover story, drive to a station 1 mile away all while keeping up conversation with his passenger and then sit attentively for 30 minutes of statements all while supposedly unconscious? Apparently Stiles.

It was 1 a.m by the time Stiles flopped into bed, and as he stared at the blank ceiling, he knew he had two options: one, freak out about whatever the hell was wrong with him; two: research the hell out of what Kira really was. He picked the second option.

School the following morning was a blur. Classes passed by incoherently as Stiles spent his time buried in one lore book or another, from several different mythologies around the world.

By lunch he had the answer. Kira was a kitsune. It made sense, really. Almost every single supernatural creature was vulnerable to electricity in some way or another. The only one that wasn't was a Japanese creature said to live for hundreds of years, able to manipulate electricity at its will and create fox fire. Which, yeah, had the power capacity to, let's say, blow out the power grid of a whole town.

Poor Scott. Why his friend always falls for the pretty girls with deadly secrets, Stiles will never know.

Of course, with the Kira conundrum out of the way, Stiles now had 100% of his brain to freak out about whatever the hell was happening to him. Starting with the new key on his keyring.

Stiles' phone rang at 5 p.m.

"Sam?"

"Ok, don't freak out." Sam said, sounding very much like he was freaking out. "Cas is dead."

Stiles bolted upright on his bed. "WHAT?"

"And Bobby's house burned down." Sam continued, his voice getting noticeably stressed. "But it's ok, Bobby's fine, we're all fine!"

"Except Cas!"

"Cas wasn't fine for longer than any of us knew!" Sam said sternly, regretfully. "But unfortunately, that isn't the worst of it."

"Cas is dead and it gets WORSE?"

"He may not be dead!" Sam said. "I mean, yeah, he probably is, but Dean's still holding on to his coat, it's kinda adorable actually-"

"SAM!" Stiles demanded. "Why is Cas dead?"

"Right, sorry." Sam said with a pained huff. "Do you want the long story or the short story?"

"Short story."

"Okay." Sam said with a deep sigh. "You know how we keep saying we aren't going to start another apocalypse? This one may not actually be our fault..."

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles hangs up the phone in a daze.

 _They probably won't come to Beacon Hills._ Sam had said. _The nemeton repels them too much._

Well yay.

 _Dean's in a bit of shock._ Sam had said. _Bobby, too. I seem to be the only one holding it together, ironic, considering._

Scott texts him about breaking into the evidence locker. At this point, Stiles is so unfazed, he agrees without a second thought.

 _I'm not sure how long this bought of sanity is going to last._ Sam had said. _Not long, I don't think. We don't usually get that lucky._

Damn right. Stiles thought. What is it with Winchesters and losing their minds?

 _I know you were talking with Dean about something._ Sam had said. _Something serious going on back in Beacon Hills. He never told me, what with everything that has been going on. But since he's a little out of it now, do you want to talk to me?_

Out of it. That was a good term for Stiles as he tossed his key ring up and down, staring at the magically appearing key, wondering when he had put it there. Which blackout had it been?

 _I know, I know, I'm not as good with the advice stuff as Dean._ Sam had said. _I can't believe I'm actually saying that. But the point stands. I know you might not want to talk about it right now, and that's ok. But if you have any questions about the leviathans,_

Don't say it.

 _Or you think something's wrong with Beacon Hills,_

Don't say it.

 _Or you're ready to talk about whatever's bothering you,_

Don't say it.

 _Or even just because,_

Do not say it.

 _I'm here for you. I'm only a phone call away._

Oh really?

Stiles had stilled at that, holding Sam in suspense among the static.

"Thank you, Sam, but I'm alright. Great, actually. The best I've been in a long time."


	5. Wasting Light

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! So, here's another chapter! This chapter wraps up episode 4, 'Illuminated,' and once again, there's stuff added in canonical scenes. There's also some very brief action, finally. I promise all of the exposition will be over soon and we'll be on to new and exciting things, but that will not happen until we've covered episode 6. Episode 5 will be one chapter, easy, but episode 6 may be two or three... but soon! Thanks so much for all the reviews and support, you guys are awesome. As always review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 5

Wasting Light

 _I'm only a phone call away._

Stiles scoffed as he sat in his jeep, waiting in the dark for Scott. He hadn't had a very productive afternoon. After hanging up on Sam, all Stiles could do was replay the call over and over again, each time more tortuous than the last. He had plans to pick up Lydia before heading over to the blackout party, but until then, here he was, in the dark, waiting to help Scott break into the sheriff's station. His photocopied keycards burned a hole in his pocket, and Stiles tried not to think too hard about what would happen if they were caught.

Prison, probably. Actually, that wouldn't be such a bad idea. At least if he blacked out in prison, he couldn't move around.

 _I'm only a phone call away._

If only. The thing in Stiles' head had held his tongue before. It could definitely do it again. Or hide his phone. Or call Sam and lie, or... Well, he better not give it any ideas.

 _Too late._

Stiles jumped so much his head hit the ceiling of his jeep with a _thunk!_

"Ow..." Stiles murmured, running his hand over his head with a scowl. "Son of a bitch." Ok, what the hell was that? That wasn't his constant internal monologue. It wasn't his voice. If Stiles didn't know any better, he would say the words had been whispered to him in a gravelly, sinister voice. But Stiles looked frantically around, and saw no one near, no one around the block, no one who could have possibly spoken. But that was impossible. The words were so quiet, he could have imagined them. But no, with the way Stiles' legs were shaking, the ashen face looking back at him out of the rearview mirror, the eyes a little too alert, Stiles was certain he hadn't. But that meant...

"Stiles!" A voice said to his immediate left.

"Whaugh!" Stiles yelped in surprise, as he turned and found Scott leaning against his jeep, smirking at Stiles' alarm. Beside him, Kira was chuckling softly.

"Is he always like this?" she asked Scott with amusement.

"Oh, ha ha." Stiles said bitterly. "That's right. Laugh at the person helping you break into a police station." Immediately, Scott's smirk dropped to apology and Kira stopped mid-chuckle, looking horrified. Now it was Stiles' turn to laugh. "Just kidding." he said good-naturedly. "Here." He handed Scott the keycards and explained what each of them did, as well as the various dangers they might encounter on the way.

"My dad's being investigated for misconduct, so if you get caught, Scott, I can't help you." Stiles said, then mentally kicked himself. His dad's indictment. How could he have forgotten? His dad might lose his job and Stiles had been too preoccupied with himself to notice! And look at what he was doing! No, he had to take those cards back. He was already pushing it enough as it was. But-

"Thanks, Stiles!" Scott chirped, and before Stiles could call after him, or yank him back by his jacket, Scott was gone, and Stiles was left alone with a dark jeep and a cluttered mind.

He did things to pass the time. He texted Lydia, he listed all the state capitals in his head to see if he still remembered them all, (he did), he tossed his keys in the air repeatedly, he did everything possible except dwell on the fact that earlier he had heard a _voice_ speak in his _head._ As he tossed his keys, Stiles' eyes began to stray to the mysterious mystery key. The one with no lock. The one that had appeared after his blackout after the power station. The one that had appeared after his interrogation with Agent McCall. Agent McCall, who was right in front of Stiles and about to enter the police station- oh shit.

Stiles didn't think, didn't hesitate. He all but fell out of his car and ran gracelessly towards the station, just catching Agent McCall before he entered his office.

At least his hunter training was good for one thing. Through bubbling panic, Stiles was able to spin some ludicrous idea about connections at the high school to Barrow. Never mind that the connection was actually twenty feet away from him in his office. It wasn't going to cut it, though. One quick read of McCall's body language showed that he was only humoring Stiles, didn't really give a damn, and was one millisecond from stepping away. If Stiles wanted to help Scott, he needed Agent McCall engaged.

 _Now how the hell do I do that?_

 _I think you know._

Stiles barely contained the jolt that ran through him as the gravelly voice spoke, and an idea, or rather, a memory, dropped into his mind.

 _No. No way. That's way too cruel._

But Agent McCall was shooting him a false smile, and turning away, and Stiles was out of time, so he spoke, lashed out in the most horrible way possible.

"I know why you really hate my dad."

Stiles barely recognized his own voice. It was soft and unyielding, and dangerous. Threatening, even. Stiles cringed as he heard it, as he spoke, sounding so unlike himself, but it worked. Agent McCall paused, hand hovering over the doorknob, head titled to listen. Intrigued, just like Stiles wanted. So why did it feel so wrong?

"It's cause he knows something. Something you don't want anyone to know."

Stiles had forgotten about it. He was so young when he heard it, he didn't understand the gravity of the action. And, after Scott's dad left, and Scott was as happy a kid as any, it hadn't seemed to matter, so slowly and surely, Stiles had forgotten. Until right now. Something made him remember.

"But guess what?"

Stiles sounded terrifying, and it terrified himself. His voice sounded so _wrong..._ It sounded like... Like Sam and Dean's _._ He sounded like a hunter. The deadly kind that shot first without questions, like Dean, but also the more dangerous kind, the one that didn't reveal itself to be lethal until it was too late. Like Sam.

"I know too."

Stiles sounded like his worst nightmare, the creature everyone in his pack was worried he would become... but it _worked._ Agent McCall was frozen in place, his hand hovering over the doorknob,his lips parted in shock. He looked scared. Very, very scared. The majority of Stiles squirmed upon seeing this, and recoiled in the horrid power of his actions, but... but some small part of him twisted in glee. He felt it. Some part of him liked being feared.

"You don't know anything, Stiles." Agent McCall said, but it was broken and brash, as uncomposed as the man himself. It wasn't a threat, it was a plea.

Stiles felt his own head tilt to the side in a movement so reptilian it gave him chills. His eyes bore into Agent McCall's, searching for weaknesses, and finding several. He wanted to stop. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blue light of Kira's phone, and knew they would be safe soon. He didn't want to threaten the father of his best friend. But the words kept pouring out of his mouth in that strange tone, almost of their own accord.

"Is that so?" he asked challengingly, his mouth curved in the ghost of a mocking smirk. "So the dent at the bottom of Scott's stairs? That was what, a dropped bookcase?" Agent McCall turned ghost-white and Stiles chuckled alienly. "See, that's what I thought. You know what happened. I know what happened. The only one who doesn't is Scott."

"What is it you're suggesting, Stiles?" McCall asked harshly, and Stiles smirked as he saw Kira and Scott slip out the back door.

"I'm suggesting stay away from him." he said. "He doesn't want to see you. And neither do I."

With that, Stiles turned on his heel and slinked out of the sheriff's station with all the foreign confidence in the world, leaving nothing but a gaping and shaking Agent McCall. On his way out, Stiles caught a reflection of himself on a pane of glass; in the pale bluish light of the blackout lamps, he looked more inhuman than ever.

"Dude!" Scott shouted energetically as they reconvened, enveloping Stiles in an aggressive one-armed hug that was really more of a headlock.

"That was so awesome!" Kira all-but-shrieked, and Stiles couldn't agree less. Stiles smiled thinly back at her, and took a deep breath. Outside of the station, away from Agent McCall, Stiles could clearly see that he hadn't been acting like himself, to a horrific extent. Those words, that tone, those hadn't been him. He hadn't intended to sound like that. So what the hell was it, then?

"You guys get what you need, then?" Stiles asked, reaching out his hand to collect the key cards.

"Yeah!" Scott said enthusiastically, but as he placed the cards in Stiles' hand and their skin met, he frowned smalley. "You alright, man?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Stiles asked with a shrug. Behind Scott, Kira stepped away to put on her motorcycle helmet, out of earshot. Stiles swiped the cards from Scott's still outreached hand and pocketed them.

"Because." Scott said, and quick as a flash, he grabbed Stiles' other wrist. Stiles watched as small black lines slipped easily from his exposed wrist to Scott's hand, like a trail of marching ants. "Did you hurt yourself or something?"

"I-" _no,_ he wanted to say, but he couldn't, because all Stiles could fixate on was the little black lines. They were so small, and harmless, but Stiles could only see ink dripping from his chest and a neon-dark sky and erupting pain and Allison-had-shot-him-

" _Stop._ " he said instead, desperate and not at all authoritative, but something must have sounded off because Scott listened. Withdrawing his hand slowly and with furrowed brows, Scott cautiously backed up a step, hands raised in surrender.

It took Stiles a moment to realize that his heart was hammering and there was a loud rushing noise in his ears, but once Scott stepped away, and the lines faded into pale pale skin, he began to relax.

"What's going on with you, Stiles?" Scott asked, dead serious. "Why can't I take your pain?"

"Because it doesn't hurt!" Stiles said hysterically. "I'm fine!" _Plus, like you need any more._

"That's bullshit, Stiles."

"Yeah, well," Stiles said with a shrug, not even caring that Scott saw right through him. It wasn't like he was particularly hiding anything. "The hell else am I supposed to tell myself?"

Scott glanced quickly back at where Kira was standing by Scott's motorcycle, waiting patiently with a gentle smile on her face. "I'm going to take Kira home." he said. "And then we're going to talk."

Stiles sighed. "Can we talk tomorrow?" he begged. "I'll be fine for one night, Scott. I just want to have a normal night. Can you do that for me?" He fully and totally planned to avoid the hell out of Scott tomorrow.

Scott thought about it long and hard but he must have come to the inevitable conclusion that there was no getting any information out of Stiles if he wasn't willing. He nodded once, curtly. "Tomorrow. I'll see you at the party, then?"

"Yeah." Stiles said with a smile, his keys weighing a thousand pounds in his pocket. "See you at the party."

In retrospect, making out with a drunk girl covered in glowing body paint wasn't exactly the most noble thing Stiles had ever done.

He blamed stress.

 _If Sam and Dean could see me now..._ Stiles thought as he hastily gave Kaitlyn a bottle of water for her troubles, before slinking away from her in the alarmedly neon crowd. The mass of people pushed and pulled at him, but that didn't matter, because there was phosphorous on his key and he needed to be at the school _yesterday._ Everything was beginning to make sense. He had been running towards the chem hall one moment and away from it the next, with a missing time slot of twenty minutes. That would have been enough time, easy, to filch a key and leave the chemical closet open for Barrow. As for the numbers... _(chalk dusting his fingers)_ Stiles wasn't sure. But he needed to get to the school. He needed to see if the key worked.

But what if the key did work? What then? Stiles had no reason to assist Barrow in his mad massacre. He had nothing to gain from enabling Barrow to hide from werewolves. If the key worked, then Stiles would have to confront the reality that the thing in his head, whatever it was, had a mind of its own, and one of malicious intent. If the key didn't work... Then Stiles was just going crazy. You know it's been a weird day when you'd rather be crazy.

As Stiles pushed through the crowd, he bumped into several people. Lydia, who gave him a look, Scott and Kira, who nodded, Danny, who said 'hey' absentmindedly, and Aiden, who actually reached out and halted him.

"What?" Stiles asked to the hand on his shoulder.

"Have you seen Ethan?" Aiden asked, and even with the weird green doodles on his chest, he managed to look menacing.

"No..." Stiles said, remembering Danny's absentminded look moments earlier. "I only just got here."

"And now you're leaving?" Aiden asked, jerking his head towards Stiles' obvious objective of the door. "What, a party thrown by werewolves too good for you?"

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't like it when my hosts have killed my friends." Stiles shot back sharply, anxious to be done with this. He expected Aiden to brush it off, egotistical maniac he was, but Ethan's absence, or something else, must have truly been bugging him, because instead of scoffing or snarling, Aiden's hand tightened on Stiles' shoulder and he dragged Stiles roughly behind him, out the door of Derek's loft and into an adjacent, and empty, hallway. The moment the door shut on the pulsating mass of neon bodies and the music was muffled from its previous roar, Stiles' head began to clear, just a bit. Now, instead of gnawing suspicion, he had full fledged anxiety.

And Aiden was glaring at him with blue eyes. Fantastic.

"Listen, _Stiles,"_ Aiden spat, saying his name like an insult. His claws elongated to five acute points that stung Stiles' shoulder. "No one asked you to be here."

"I know." Stiles said, as mocking as he could muster. "That's why I'm leaving. Or trying to." He glared at Aiden's claws meaningfully.

"In Beacon Hills." Aiden clarified. "In Scott's pack. No one asked you to stick your nose into the supernatural when it's clearly more than you can handle. No one asked you to be a liability while the rest of us bust our asses trying to keep you and every other human alive. No one asked you to be here." The claws sharpened just that much and Stiles winced. Aiden's eyes glinted, sadistic bastard. "Now, I know you're the one keeping Scott from letting my brother and I into his pack. I can't help but wonder why?"

"You want to know why?" Stiles retorted, silently fuming. "It's your terrible fashion sense."

Even in the half-light, Stiles could see Aiden's toothy smile, and it was enough to make him shiver. That was all the warning he got before Stiles was slammed into the wall with a resounding _thud!,_ his bones rattling from the impact, the claws in his shoulder cutting deeper.

"You're lying." Aiden said gleefully, looming over him menacingly. "You want to know something interesting, Stiles, I can tell when you're lying now. I couldn't before. Before you died, before we left Deucalion, I always thought it weird that your heartbeat was always steady. _Always steady._ Especially when you were lying. Not anymore, though. I wonder what changed."

Stiles knew what had changed. The thing inside his head. His perfect control over his heartrate was gone, along with most of his sanity.

"But that's not what I want to know." Aiden continued. "Why. Won't you. Let my brother and I. In?"

Stiles wanted to crack another joke but the pain in his shoulder was actually starting to be quite painful.

"You know why." he said through gritted teeth. "You killed them."

"Who, Boyd?" Aiden asked, and he threw his head back and laughed. "I don't remember you being particularly close."

"Not just Boyd." Stiles said. "Heather. Jake. Mr. Harris. Almost my dad. The Darach came back to Beacon Hills because of you and your little alpha pack, Aiden. If you had stayed away, then we would have been left alone. Hell-" _maybe Alexander wouldn't have come here. Maybe I wouldn't have had to tell Scott._

"That's rich." Aiden said. "Pinning the blame on me. Awfully convenient. I didn't kill those people, Stiles. I'm not going to take the blame for it. You want to talk about blame?" Aiden's smile was manic. "Fine. I did it. I killed Boyd. But even so, you have no right to judge me. Cause what the hell did you even do to stop it from happening?"

Stiles saw red. What did he do? He did everything! It wasn't exactly easy, what with his cover still in effect and him knowing absolutely freaking nothing about Druish magic. Stiles did everything in his power, and it wasn't enough to save Boyd. Aiden had no fucking right-

Before Stiles could fully register it happening, he had roundhouse-kicked Aiden in the stomach. Aiden folded backward with an _oomph!,_ his claws popping out of Stiles' shoulder with a sickening crunch, and Stiles kicked him again, this time in the knees. Aiden growled and swiped at Stiles with his claws as he fell, but Stiles jumped over them and brought his feet down on Aiden's hands, breaking them. Aiden howled in pain, sprawled on the ground, and Stiles reached down and punched him in the jaw, knocking him out cold.

Legs shaking with draining adrenaline, and covered in sweat and a thin layer of blood, Stiles slowly made his way to the door. The hallway was empty except for him and an unconscious Aiden a ways back, but that ceased to be true as the heavy metal door of Derek's loft opened and out stumbled Allison and Isaac.

"Stiles!" Allison said with a wide smile, and Stiles did a double-take because she was wearing nothing but a pink bra and Isaac's face was painted like a tiger's. Then, Allison's eyes found his shoulder, and her eyes widened. "What happened? Are those claw marks?"

"Sorta." Stiles said. He gestured down the hallway he had stumbled from. "You'll find a rather unresponsive Aiden down there," he said, noticing Isaac's flinch upon hearing the name. "You can wake him up if you want. Or not, it's your call. Personally, I'd leave him there."

"Okay, uh- Stiles, where are you going?" Allison asked, her eyes darting down the hallway.

"The school." Stiles said simply, tonelessly. He didn't have the energy for much else. Whatever power he had had behind the attack on Aiden was quickly dissipating. "Something I need to check."

"Um... Alright." Allison said. "Oh, uh, Stiles, we're not going to have a training session tomorrow. My dad isn't, um, feeling well."

"Ok." Stiles said, and Allison shot him a relieved smile. There was more to the story, he knew, and she knew that he knew, but he wasn't going to pry. "Tell me more if you want to."

"I will." Allison promised, and Isaac shot her a confused look. "Take care."

"Yeah," Stiles said, reaching for his keys, feeling the weight of every one in his hands, a certain phosphorous one more heavy than most. "You too."

The school was empty when he got there, of course it was, but as Stiles walked by dark and empty classroom after classroom, the emptiness seemed to press in on him. He was alone now, very alone. If something were to happen- if it were to take over- there'd be no stopping it.

 _Nothing's going to happen._ Stiles chided to himself as he passed the English hall. _The key is probably not even going to work. You're here for nothing. You're wasting your time._

Stiles almost believed it too. But then he entered the chemistry classroom (his eyes averted from the blackboard) and was struck with a moment of clarity.

That dream. That dream he'd had, where he'd tumbled out of a locker only to find himself in a classroom with the nemeton at its center, where it had wrapped a root around his wrist and dragged him down-

-it had been this classroom.

Turning away from the desks, heart hammering, Stiles fished out his keys with remarkably steady hands, before finding the phosphorous one, unmistakable even here in the dark. Taking a deep breath, he put the key into the lock. And turned.

 _Click!_

Stiles pushed the door open with a shaky breath and stared into the empty chemical closet of his damnation. So it was true, then. He had the key. He had done it.

Dear god, Kira almost _died..._ Wait.

Stiles felt the classroom scream at him, beckoning him to turn around, but he covered his ears. It screamed again, a dark force begging attention, and Stiles counted his fingers. Ten. The blackboard was a magnet, pulling at his back, and Stiles felt his shoulders twitch to face it until he had no choice but to turn around and face the very literal classroom of his nightmares.

He stared at the blackboard. The blackboard stared back.

The six letters and numbers glowed innocently in a naive yellow and Stiles glowered at them. But like a man possessed, Stiles' feet began to move forward, away from the chemical closet and towards something much more dangerous. He walked towards the blackboard, almost against his own will, but no, he needed to know. Had to know.

Before Stiles knew it, the journey was over and Stiles found himself staring at three numbers and a magnetized blackboard, a piece of yellow chalk in his hand.

 _-magnetized, like the fuse box as it pulled him-_

 _What am I even doing here?_ Stiles asked himself as he stared, but he knew. Of course he did. Steeling himself, and holding his own breath, Stiles felt the chalk give as he began to write.

19

53

88.

Stiles opened the eyes he hadn't realized he closed, and felt his stomach swoop.

They were the same. They were exactly the same.

Stiles jerked away from the blackboard as if repelled by it, with enough force to send himself careening into the air and onto the floor, sprawled vulnerably in front of the undeniable proof.

He had done it. He had sent Barrow after Kira.

 _-his bat stuck to the fuse box as Barrow kept rambling-_

He had... he had almost gotten Scott killed. Kira, Lydia, either one of them could have been hurt.

 _-a bright white light that burned like fire-_

Stiles scrambled hastily to his feet and ran. He ran and ran, away from the deadly classroom and through the halls, out the door, the chilly autumn air a welcome to the furnace inside his head. The numbers were imprinted in his mind, three sets of twins that flashed maliciously and Stiles clawed at his own hair like the dream in the same setting.

"Wake up!" he chanted. "Come on, wake up!"

But there was no waking up. He counted his fingers. Ten. He counted them again. Ten.

He felt the panic attack coming, saw no real way out of it, but in a last moment of clarity Stiles fished out his cell phone and dialed one of three speed dials.

"Hello?"

"Sam." Stiles rasped as he leaned up against his jeep. "Y-ou said you wer-e only a phone call away."

"I'm here, Stiles." Sam said quickly. "What's wrong?"

"I've lost my mind." Stiles whispered, no longer having the breath for speaking normally. The faces of Barrow, Kira, Scott, Aiden, and Agent McCall flashed through his head. "Sam, what if it's true? What if I did it?"

"Did what?" Sam asked urgently. "Stiles, listen to me. You'd never hurt a fly."

 _\- "All day I've been hearing this buzzing." Lydia murmured-_

Stiles thought of McCall's fearful face, Aiden's sprawling form, Kira bound and frightened in front of a madman.

"I'd have to disagree with you, Sam."

Sam sighed. "Something's wrong with you." he said. "Dean's here with me. You think you might be ready to talk about it?"

Stiles shrugged. "What the hell." he murmured. "We've wasted enough time as it is."


	6. Enough Space

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! Sorry for the wait, and sorry this chapter is on the short side. So, this chapter covers stuff in episode 17, but mainly stuff that takes place 'offscreen.' I promise that next chapter will be longer and have some action! As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 6

Enough Space

"Stiles," Dean's voice crackled from his cell phone, sounding concerned. "You still with us?"

"Yeah." Stiles said breathlessly. "Yeah, sorry, I just needed to catch my breath."

"You going to have a panic attack?" Sam asked worriedly, and Stiles could almost picture the frown gracing his face.

"Nah." Stiles said, and he meant it. As leaned against the jeep, steadying his shaking legs, Stiles could feel his chest un-tighten and his head clear some of the fog of panic. It seemed improbable, but just hearing Sam and Dean had calmed him down.

"Great." Dean said happily. "Awesome. Ok. So... well... Why don't you start at the beginning?"

"Which beginning?" Stiles asked. He thought of where it could have all started. Drowning himself as a sacrifice? Shooting Alexander in the head? Waking up from his first dream-within-a-dream? Closing the door in his mind, only to have the nightmares return? Realizing _something was in his head?_ "There's kind of several."

Dean sighed, a beaten down, heavy kind of sound, that made Stiles twinge with guilt. "Why don't- why don't- uh, I don't know. You said something about your tattoo melting off. Why don't you start with that?"

"Your- what?" Sam snapped. "How is- _what?"_

"Long story." Stiles said tiredly.

"Well did it come _back?_ "

Quickly, Stiles glanced down his shirt at his bare chest. "Nope." It had taken over a day to get the courage to check.

"Yeah- uh... yeah." Sam said wearily, weirded out. "Yeah, why don't you start with that."

So Stiles did. He explained his dream, of Allison and the black sky, and how because of the dream, werewolves couldn't take his pain anymore without him freaking out. How he knew that something was in his head. How he started losing time again looking for Barrow, how that led him to a chemistry class in the middle of the night with a coded message spelling out Kira's death. How he lost time in the treatment plant and apparently drove to the police station and manufactured cover story all the while. He explained breaking into the sheriff's station, the voice he heard in his head, the violent and uncanny way he treated Aiden and Agent McCall. The key he found on his keyring. The numbers on the blackboard.

"Well?" Stiles challenged to the silent phone line.

"Well..." Sam replied hesitantly, and alarm bells began to go off in Stiles' brain. "The...the thing in your head. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was possession. But even without your tattoo, you wear salt and iron all the time. If you're possessed, it's by nothing I've heard of. You could be hexed... Or cursed. I'll do some research. But in the meantime, Stiles, maybe you should go to the hospital."

Stiles' stomach dropped out of his body. "What? Why?"

"You know why." Sam said gently. "You know. You've known the whole time. It's why you're calling us. You're not freaking out because you could be possessed. You're freaking out because you might not be."

"I-" Stiles started to say, but he doubted himself. _No way. No. He is not saying this._

And yet...

 _And yet didn't I say that I'd rather be crazy than possessed?_

"I'm not saying anything for sure." Sam said bluntly, quickly, like he knew where Stiles' thoughts were going. "It could be supernatural. It probably is. The timing is suspicious, for one thing, as is the voice you're hearing, and you aren't exactly the type to set a madman after someone with no good reason-"

"-I thought Kira was hiding something." Stiles said, voice flat.

"Uh, what?"

"Kira." Stiles clarified, voice depleted of all emotion as the horrible truth settled over him. "When I met her, I thought she was hiding something. I was right, because she caused a city-wide blackout, but even before I knew that, I was suspicious of her. There's your reason."

"Stiles." Sam chided. "Having a suspicion does not translate to trying to get someone killed."

"It does when your brain's eroding." Stiles said softly, barely a whisper.

"But Agent McCall-"

"Let's be honest, Sam. I've always hated him." Stiles said bitterly. "And I was the one who said those things to him. Me! No one else! It was _my_ memory that I dredged up. It was _my_ brothers' threatening behavior that I imitated. No one was controlling my actions! What demon could be responsible for that?"

"Fair point." Sam relented. "But Aiden-"

"Aiden was being threatening and my instincts took over." Stiles said numbly. "I have the power to take him down. I've wanted to for a while."

"But-"

"We know the symptoms." Stiles said, and for a fraction of a second, his voice broke. "Memory loss. Delusions. Irritability. Vivid dreams during the day."

"Your tattoo's gone." Sam said firmly.

"Is it?" Stiles challenged. "There's no way to be sure."

"Stiles-" Sam sighed deeply. "Go to the hospital in the morning. See what they think. In the meantime, I'm going to do some research. I think... Well, I'm going to be honest. I don't think it's dementia. It's too quickly onset, and timing like that doesn't happen to us. But- well, if it isn't dementia, I have no idea what it could be."

"So either way, I should be terrified." Stiles said with a bitter laugh. "Awesome."

"Stiles?" Dean asked, sounding vaguely annoyed.

"Yeah, Dean?"

" _We're_ gonna worry about it so you don't have to. You're gonna be fine, kid." Dean said with something heartbreakingly close to compassion. "Now shut up and go to school."

Stiles sought out Scott the moment he got to school. Running on 3 hours of fitful sleep, he must have looked crazed and confused as he grasped the front of Scott's shirt and tugged him away from Isaac and down the long front hallway, before shoving him unceremoniously into an empty classroom.

"Hey-" Isaac protested as Scott was dragged away, but Stiles payed him no heed. Scott began to protest also, but anything he might have said quickly died upon seeing the exhausted determination on Stiles' face.

"Stiles, what the hell?" Scott asked softly as he stumbled into the empty classroom. Stiles didn't answer, instead he turned and shut the door, hands shaking as they left the knob.

Scott saw this and his seemingly ever-present frown deepened, not that Stiles could see. "Are you alright?" he asked, worry dripping from his voice and onto the chalk-dusted floor.

"Not really."

Stiles turned from the door, meeting Scott's softly concerned eyes with his own bloodshot, exhausted ones.

Scott reeled back, alarmed. "What happened, Stiles?"

"A lot." Stiles said so lowly it could have been mistaken as a grunt. "I might as well tell you, I've made a habit of coming clean today."

Scott's brow furrowed, and he crossed his arms reflexively. "If you're talking about last night," he began defensively. "Don't bother, I already know."

"You do?" Stiles asked, and Scott didn't need to hear his heartbeat to see the shock of panic jolt through him. It started with his left foot jerking, and travelled all along his body, ending with his right shoulder thrown back in agitation.

"Yeah, I do." Scott said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. "And I'm sorry you had to deal with that, but if it's any consolation, I don't think Aiden will be bothering you again." He uncrossed his arms and shot Stiles an easy grin. "You had him pretty freaked out." Scott decided not to mention that moments after Aiden had recounted the tale, they had had to fight an army of freaky shadow ninjas. Stiles, it appeared, had enough on his plate without feeling obligated to hit the books.

Instead of returning Scott's grin and basking in victory, Scott's words seemed to make Stiles slump into himself, so much so he almost stumbled forward.

"Hey-" Scott said, realizing his mistake. He lunged forward and wrapped his hands around Stiles' bony shoulders, catching him before he could fall. "Stiles-" he broke off, looking away from Stiles' nearly broken face to the abundance of little black lines inching up both of his hands. "-you're in pain."

Stiles' eyes snapped up from the floor with some sort of steely resolve, landed on the black lines seeping from his shoulders. "Stop!" he said, too weak to have any authority, but Scott, reluctantly, obliged. He didn't move away, though, not wanting to chance Stiles fainting.

"Stiles, what's wrong?" Scott asked, dead set on getting an answer.

Stiles pursed his lips, and his eyes seemed to regain his usually ever-present defiance. "First things first." he said. "I never meant to hurt Aiden, alright? I was just cornered and freaking out and he was kind of being an idiot-"

" _Stiles."_ Scott said, on the edge of exasperation. "It's fine. I'm glad you got the upper hand on him. I don't care about Aiden. I care about you."

Stiles' shoulders seemed to lose an iota of tension, but then he reached forward and grasped Scott's hand with a surprisingly vice like grip. "I need to tell you something, and you're not going to like it. You actually might hate it."

"Okay."

"After I left the party, I came here."

"Why?" Scott asked.

Stiles sighed. "Lydia told you about the letters on the chalkboard, right? The ones leading Barrow to Kira? And the unlocked chemical closet? At the twins' blacklight party, someone noticed my key had phosphors on it, and it was a hunch, and I had to check it out, so I drove here-"

"Stiles, slow down." Scott said, taking in Stiles' rapidly increasing heartbeat. _Wait a minute..._

Scott jolted, looking up at Stiles in alarm. "Stiles, I can hear your heartbeat!"

Stiles grimaced. "I know. Aiden said something along those lines. It's how he figured out I was hiding something. But that's less important."

"Less important-"

"Please." Stiles said firmly, still standing tall even though he looked so beaten down. "Please let me get through this. The key fit, Scott. For the chemical closet. And the numbers on the board were in my handwriting."

"What- but- how does that even make sense? Why would you want to help Barrow kill Kira?"

Stiles let out a humorless laugh that sounded more like it had been ripped from his throat. "Why would I send Barrow on a goose chase when I could have just done it myself?" he asked with heavy sardonicism, and Scott flinched at his bluntness. "None of this exactly makes sense."

"But-" Scott began. "But how can you be sure?"

"Take a look for yourself." Stiles said, gesturing towards the blackboard paralleling them across the room, which, Scott realized with a jolt, Stiles had been avoiding looking at the entire time.

Ripping the bandaid off the wound, Scott turned towards the blackboard- and frowned in puzzlement.

"Stiles," he began slowly. "There's nothing there."

Stiles' eyes snapped to the menacing force with alarming speed. "What."

"Stiles-"

"No." Stiles said. "No, it was here, I swear-" he frantically dug out his key ring and searched it meticulously. "The key, I showed you the key, right?"

Scott shook his head. "You only told me about it."

"Scott, I swear-"

"It's okay,Stiles." Scott said, his concern melting into genuine panic. "I believe you."

Instead of reassuring him, Scott's words made Stiles droop. "Well, that's worse."

An hour later, Stiles exited his Econ class to find himself met with a wall of muscle and curly hair. Specifically, Isaac Lahey, with a firm grip on his shoulder and a disarmingly calm smile.

"Let me guess." Stiles said as Isaac led him away from the rest of the students filtering out of the classroom. "Scott wants you to take me to the hospital."

Isaac nodded, and they stopped by Stiles' locker, where he put his books back with probably more vigor than necessary.

"I call shotgun." Stiles said calmly as they approached the front of the school.

Isaac turned to Stiles in confusion, his first break in the calm. "What?"

With a smirk, Stiles dropped the keys to his jeep in Isaac's hands. "Well, Isaac, you don't have a car. What time is Allison going to be here?"

"Uh..." Isaac said as a sleek black car pulled up to the front of the school, and Allison rolled down the passenger window and shot them a winning smile.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Stiles said as he bolted for the front seat, leaving Isaac no choice but to clamor awkwardly in the back.

"I'm assuming you're tasked with bringing my jeep home." Stiles said to Isaac once everyone was settled. "Isaac, not a scratch."

Beside him, Allison laughed heartily at Isaac's sheepish expression, her smile the first welcoming thing about the day. Once she had calmed down, she turned to Stiles with a different smile, more apologetic.

"I'm sorry about this, Stiles, but you have to see that we're worried about you."

Stiles shook his head. "No, I-" he took a deep breath, focusing on the road in front of him and not Allison and Isaac's visible worry. "-I appreciate it, actually. I'm worried too."

Allison smiled sympathetically, and Stiles didn't write it off, because she, and Scott, were probably the only ones who could come close to understanding what he was going through. Losing your mind wasn't exactly easy.

"You can tell me anything, Stiles." Allison said, her hair swinging behind her shoulder gracefully as she returned her attention to the road. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah." Stiles said with a nod.

"Then start talking, cause I know you didn't tell Scott about your phone call with your brothers."

Stiles' jaw dropped open. "How-"

"Please." she said with a roll of her eyes. "I inexplicably link myself to a psychopath and a supernatural blackout, and the first thing I would do is call my dad. So you obviously called your brothers. Which Scott didn't mention. So spill."

Allison pulled into the hospital parking lot and parked the car, before turning off the car and facing him, arms crossed expectantly.

Stiles looked up at Beacon Memorial with dread. "You must have some semblance of what they said." he mumbled. "Or else we wouldn't be he here."

Allison's grin faltered, and even Isaac in the backseat looked regretful. "Oh, Stiles." Allison breathed sadly, reaching for him, but Stiles vindictively ducked her comforting arm.

"No one's sure." he mumbled again, eyes trained on the car floor. "No one's sure of anything. Whether it's supernatural or whether I'm just going insane. _I'm_ not sure. Is it bad if-" Stiles broke off, just for a second, and he refused to acknowledge that that had been a sob lodged in his throat. "-is it bad if, if, I'm hoping it's something supernatural?"

"Not at all." Allison murmured, her eyes shining. And Stiles smiled thinly back because he could see, all over her crestfallen face, which one she was hoping for.

"Stiles-" Isaac said suddenly, and Stiles whipped his head around to face him because never had Isaac sounded so beaten down. "I hope you're alright."

Isaac was copying Stiles with his eyes firmly trained on the car floor, so he didn't see Stiles' look of pure astonishment.

"Uh,thanks man."

Allison gave him another one-armed hug, this time successful, and then Stiles was out of the sanctity of the car and they were driving away. Taking a deep breath, Stiles looked back up at the looming hospital with dread, before taking a step forward. Then another.

 _Mood swings? Irritability? Insomnia?_

"Vivid dreams during the day?" Melissa asked calmly.

"Ok, yes to basically all of these." Stiles mumbled, not meeting Melissa's eyes, not even as she rummaged through drawers and pulled out a wicked-looking needle, not even as she filled it with a mysterious clear liquid that made Stiles' hands twitch, not even as she approached him with the needle. He didn't look into her eyes, he was too afraid of what he'd find there.

"What is that?" he asked, nodding towards the needle.

"A sedative." she said, not vaguely at all. "I think I know what's wrong with you."

"Yeah? What?"

"Sleep deprivation." Melissa said, and Stiles could hear the smile in her voice, could feel the calm and relief she was exhuming, so he had to check. As she stuck the needle in his arm, Stiles looked into Mrs. McCall's eyes, and even with the sedative already drugging his brain, instantly, he knew.

 _Liar._

"Thanks, mom." Stiles mumbled, as the drug pulled him under, as he fought it's pull, because even now, when he knew it was what he needed, some part of him was still terrified that his body would move of its own accord before he woke.


	7. Come Alive

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! So, I worked pretty hard on this chapter, I'm very proud of it, however I will say that it is very difficult to write the whole 'Stiles trapped in his own body' thing, so if I messed that up, or made it too confusing, I apologize. I think you'll like this one, though. It takes place at the very, very end of episode 17, as well as during some time in between 17 and 18, and mentions some stuff that also happened in 17, so I recommend rewatching that episode. The next chapter will also have some time in between episodes. We're starting to get to the cool stuff! As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 7

Come Alive

Stiles knew something was wrong the moment he woke up in the hospital bed. At first, the world was warm and fuzzy, and for the first time in over a week, the piercing headache between his eyes had abated. At first, Stiles sighed in relief, overcome with the urge to burrow back into the thin but warm hospital blanket, and fall back asleep. But then a jolt of cold energy ran through him, so powerful he sat up, and Stiles clutched his head soundlessly with the knowledge that something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong. How did he know there was something wrong?

 _How do you know when there's a splinter in your foot?_

Stiles could feel it now, some sort of... _force,_ tucked away in the back of his head, out of sight, but slowly rising to the surface.

"I'm going to blackout now, aren't I?" Stiles asked himself, to cut through the panic rising in his chest as he clutched his treacherous head. Briefly, he glanced at the clock across from him, nailed to the wall rather menacingly. He'd been out for 6 hours. Why was it only taking over _now?_

Stiles groaned and sank into his hands. He should be relieved. He should be relieved that he didn't have dementia, no matter what Melissa thought. He should be relieved that whatever was wrong with him could, in some way, be cured. So why was he so scared?

Stiles was considering calling Melissa when he felt it. A presence washed over the hospital, undetectable visually, but Stiles sensed it, something dark and sinister searching the building, moving along the shadows, searching for him. No, not him. It. Whatever the hell was burrowed in his head.

He needed to run. He needed to keep everyone safe from whatever was looking for him... and, well, himself.

Stiles stood up abruptly and headed for the door, except... no, he hadn't meant to do that. Now he was walking out the door and down the brightly lit hall, only he couldn't be, because he hadn't made himself stand up. And how had he felt that presence, either? It wasn't human, he shouldn't have been able to detect it. Stiles' hands clenched and unclenched of their own accord, and Stiles tried to get them to still but he had no control. He tried to stop walking but his legs weren't listening, they kept moving along the hall at an unsettlingly even pace.

Stiles couldn't move. Stiles couldn't move his body. It, whatever it was, had complete control, and all Stiles could do was watch, horrified.

"Hey!" Stiles tried to shout, to catch the attention of one of several nurses walking by him, but his lips wouldn't move and his voice wouldn't respond. "HEY!" Stiles tried again, louder, tried to wave his arms, tried to flail in panic, but all his body did was keep walking. It was like he was a prisoner in his own mind, and no matter how hard he pounded on the door, nothing changed. He was possessed, there was no question about it now.

All of a sudden, the thing controlling Stiles' legs shifted, and now Stiles' strides were uneven and haphazard, like the way he normally walks. His fingers were no longer clenching air but twisting into complex shapes, the way they sometimes do when he talks. His eyes were no longer snapped forward, but drifted occasionally, down random halls and through random doors, the way someone with ADHD would look around. Stiles was barefoot along with his t-shirt and sweatpants, and his arms curled into themselves the way they do when he's cold, but he wasn't cold now. The _thing_ was testing him, imitating his behavior down to the smallest tic. Stiles shuddered as he realized it had been watching him- and paying close attention.

Stiles could feel the shadow presence more acutely now, so it must be getting closer, but he, _it,_ didn't seem to be scared, rather it exuded confidence, throwing Stiles' shoulders back in an almost challenging pose as it moved quickly down the hall.

 _It's looking for somewhere empty._ Stiles realized with a jolt as he- it- _they?_ passed six more rooms filled with patients. _It wants a confrontation with whatever the hell this is. What is it?_

All of the sudden, Stiles' vision was assaulted with an image. The thing possessing him was still walking, undeterred, the slapping sound of bare feet on tile still raging against his ears, but Stiles could no longer see the hallway in front of him. Instead, he saw a blindingly bright picture of Derek's loft, drenched in neon paint and rising sunlight, as a figure with sharp claws and red eyes- Scott- kicked and swiped at a black-clad figure with a sword, twisting through the air with impossible grace. The image shifted, and Stiles saw the same thing all around him. Everyone- Scott, Isaac, Allison, Ethan, Aiden, and Derek were fighting identical creatures in all black, dodging swinging swords and hitting only air in return. Stiles watched, fascinated, as Derek snuck up behind one of the sword-wielders and snapped it's neck, only for it to rematerialize seconds later, unharmed.

"This is..." Stiles started to say as the image faded, and the hospital returned, but of course his mouth didn't move. "These are... not human. Not even corporeal. They're shadows."

The thing in his head didn't respond. Rather, Stiles suddenly found himself walking through a set of double doors into a large, dark room, empty except for a gurney and a few tables around the edges. With the lights off, but the glow of the rest of the hospital not far off, the room almost looked dark blue, deep enough blue to be black.

Stiles stopped, or at least, his body did, right in the center of the room. He felt himself shift into an almost invisible fighting stance, but while he himself wasn't in control, the movement wasn't foreign; rather, it was a stance Dean had taught him years ago.

" _If you don't want to look like you're ready to fight, Stiles..."_ Dean had said, about five years ago, in the middle of a clearing in the Preserve. " _But you still want to be ready, just plant your feet like I am, see? Left foot slightly in front of the right one. It's close enough to how normal people stand that it doesn't look amis, but with your weight evenly distributed through your legs, it's that much harder to knock you over immediately."_

Okay... where had that come from...Stiles uses that stance all the time but he hadn't thought of when he learned it in years...

 _This thing. This thing is pulling memories out of my head._ Stiles realized with a horrified shudder,remembering the incident with Agent McCall, how the perfect memory seemed to drop into his head.

No sooner had Stiles come to this realization that _they_ appeared. They, the impending presence manifested. They came out of the dark, they wore black, they had swords at their hips and gleaming silver masks. But... but that wasn't an apt description at all.

They didn't come out of the dark, they _were_ the dark, conjured from nothing but a wayward shadow and swirling into existence with a menacing hiss. Their clothes weren't just black, they were _the_ black, the sky in his dream and the lines on his arm, the ink dripping from his chest and Allison-had-shot-him. Their swords glinted threateningly, even in the absence of light, and Stiles felt his soul grow cold as he looked at them. Their silver masks shined with the same hidden light, empty and void, and Stiles knew as he looked at them, through the yellow-green eyes, that there were no faces behind them.

These things were ancient. Powerful. Deadly. And most definitely not human. And now there were two glaring right at him.

Stiles was filled with an instant fear and the desire to back away, and so must have the thing because it took a several stumbling steps back. But then he felt it. A third presence, behind him.

The thing whirled and Stiles was met with a third shadow, much closer and much more terrifying. It moved, with a grace unheard of in anything alive. It's right arm moved forward, swordless, towards Stiles' head. Slowly, it reached for him, and Stiles was petrified as the dark gloved hand extended, to his face, almost as if to cup his ear. But that never happened as Stiles' body once again moved of its own accord.

With incredible speed, his hand lashed out, and halted the smoking fist before it could reach his face. Stiles could feel the hand in his. It was smooth and deceptively solid, like a real arm, but under Stiles' increasingly pressurized grasp, it began to dissipate. Stiles felt his neck turn, twisting towards the creature, and his features shifted into an unfamiliar look of dark rage.

Stiles' other arm lunged for the creature, parting it's supposed body like air, and made a fist around something in the center, something tiny and twitching and _alive._ Stiles' hand retracted, pulling the bug with it, and the shadow crumbled to nothing. Stiles felt his hand open and looked down in amazement at the source of his troubles: a firefly. It was dropped unceremoniously to the ground, and crushed vengefully beneath his feet.

There was silence, for a moment, and Stiles took it to feel the energy thrumbing through him. It was all wrong. He felt adrenalized, excited, alive, the way he always feels after a successful fight, the way he hadn't felt since demons and Meredith and gold-on-the-ceiling. But there was an unsettlingly vindictive edge to his emotions. His senses sharpened. His muscles twitched, eager for another round, unhappy with the easy victory, and yet, there was a darkness to it that left Stiles downright scared. This wasn't him. He wasn't in control. So why was there something so familiarly _right_ about all of this?

Stiles heard the other two shadows back away slowly behind him, and as he involuntarily turned to face them, he felt the power in the room shift. No longer were the shadow creatures an imposing force, because despite their expressionless masks, they looked almost... wary. If shadows could be afraid, these were they, and somehow, Stiles knew what was coming next.

They charged, and it was over in a beat of the hearts he pulled out of them. The thing in Stiles' head was ruthless, stopping the charge before either could so much as swing their swords. Stiles' hands simultaneously, mercilessly, plunged into their bodies and _tore,_ till all that was left, after a few brutal seconds, was him standing alone in the darkened room.

Him, and his company.

Stiles felt that vindictive adrenaline, again, and he could feel the thing in his head twist in satisfaction. His muscles relaxed, his feet shifted out of their stance, and his heartbeat began to slow, all against his own will.

A squeak of leather drew his attention, as well as several soft footsteps, and no, not now, no. Scott couldn't see him like this. The thing in his head was addicted to violence, and Scott couldn't get hurt. Scott had to get away, now, before he ended up like the others, before his heart was torn out and thrown to the floor, before Stiles ended up high on the adrenaline of killing his best friend. Something was in his head, and Scott didn't know-

"Stiles?"

 _Not exactly._ Stiles thought bitterly, collecting himself as he was helpless to watch as his body turned towards Scott, the most innocent of expressions on his face. Like he hadn't ripped shadows to nothing.

"Are you alright?" Scott asked softly, and Stiles took his immobilization to get a good look at him. Something had happened to Scott. It was subtle, especially in the low light of the room, but while there were no physical injuries and he was wearing the same clothes as earlier, he held himself in a smaller stature, like his reality had altered and suddenly he wasn't quite so big.

"Yeah." Stiles' mouth formed the words, but Stiles wanted nothing more than to yank them back. They were perfect, too perfect, exactly the right register, exactly the right emotion. Scott wouldn't notice that their speaker was held captive. "What's been going on?"

"C'mon." Scott said, nodding towards the door, and Stiles waited for the thing in his head to move, but it didn't. Scott looked at him quizzically. "C'mon, Stiles."

"Yeah, I'm coming." Stiles said a bit annoyed, but then he reeled back in shock because _he_ had said that. _What?_ Tentatively, Stiles tried to take a step forward, expecting nothing to happen, but there was no more weight pressing him down. His body responded in kind. Stiles swayed, overcome with some strong emotion, he didn't know if it was joy or excruciating fear. All he knew was that Scott's hands came around to steady him.

"Stiles." Scott said firmly, looking him straight on, daring him to brush it off.

"'M fine, Scotty." Stiles said weakly, fluttering his eyelids, slurring his words on purpose. "Looks like that sleep stuff didn't wear off completely."

"I'll say." Scott said with an amused huff, leading Stiles away from the blue room with the black shadows, and into a world with too much sterile white light. Stiles squinted against the harsh transition. "What were you even doing wandering around there?"

"I was looking for your mom." Stiles said somewhat-honestly, shaking off his slur, and clamping down on his rising panic. He would freak out about this later.

Scott's hands tightened ever-so-tellingly around Stiles' shoulders. "Oh?" he said, and Stiles couldn't see him while squinting against the lights, but he could hear the raw emotions Scott was trying to cover up.

Too bad Stiles was better at it. He opened his eyes, straightened up, shrugged off Scott's hands, and looked at Scott, really looked at him. In the bright light, it was that much easier to see how beaten down Scott looked. There were cuts and scrapes on his hands. He was limping slightly on his left leg. His arms were dusted in dried blood. But his eyes, his eyes looked haunted.

"Scott..." Stiles began slowly. "Tell me what the hell has been going on."

Scott gulped. "Stiles-" he began, looking crestfallen.

"No, no, Scott, you don't get to do that. You don't get to cut me out of the info now that you know I can handle myself." Stiles said, and he was relieved to find that the harsh tone was completely his own. Whatever was going on with him, whatever messed up thing had taken control of Stiles' head, it took second place to making sure Beacon Hills, and his friend, was still safe.

"You have enough to worry about-" Scott began, and Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but his own hand clenched tightly of its own accord. A warning, from whatever was listening.

"Why?" Stiles snapped, half anger, half panic. "Cause your mom says I have dementia?"

Scott winced, a motion that traveled through his entire body as he took a step away from Stiles in shock. "How did you- you were passed out-"

"Don't insult me." Stiles said cooly. "It was written all over her face."

 _Liar._ He remembered thinking, just before he passed out. Before he was locked out of his own body.

"What. Happened." Stiles repeated, because he couldn't tell Scott the truth. Instinctively, he knew the thing wouldn't let him. "And whose blood is that?"

Scott looked down at his arms in shock, as if he hadn't realized there had been blood there. "My, uh..." his face was ashen in worry. "My dad's. He was stabbed."

Stiles' anger dissipated as he reached forward and drew Scott into a one-armed hug. "Scott-"

"It's fine." Scott said, his voice muffled in Stiles' shoulder, but Stiles could still hear his voice waiver. "He's going to be fine. But he's in surgery right now and the last thing I said to him before this all happened was- oh god-"

"Hey, it's alright." Stiles said soothingly, but inside he was screaming. What were the chances that one of the people he had lashed out at yesterday mysteriously got stabbed? And, weirdly enough, the longer he held Scott, the more the sedative seemed to actually wear off. He hadn't been completely lying about it still affecting him, weighing him down, but after a few moments of Scott desperately trying to pull himself together, his misery seeping onto Stiles' cheap t-shirt, Stiles suddenly felt more wide awake then he had in days. Weeks, even.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" Stiles asked with newfound vigor as he gently led Scott down the hall, back the way he had travelled against his own will.

"They-" Scott began in a shaky breath before clearing his throat, tampering down his sadness. "They came out of the dark. They wore black. And the first person they attacked was Isaac."

Ten minutes later, Stiles was sitting on a chair in the hospital lobby, his head swimming with new information. According to Scott:

While Stiles had been at the school the night before, the shadow creatures had apparently wreaked havoc at Derek's loft, injuring Lydia and Ethan and battling the others until the sun rose. Stiles didn't mention how he already knew some of that.

Scott hadn't mentioned any of that at school this morning because apparently he hadn't wanted Stiles to worry. (Typical.)

The shadow creatures were apparently called Oni, and were Japanese demons looking for someone who was "not themselves."

Allison and Isaac had apparently gone on a side quest to an arms dealer right after dropping Stiles off at the hospital, and Chris Argent knew a lot more about all of this than he was letting on. (Also typical.)

Kira was apparently a kitsune. (Which, no duh, Stiles had already known. Apparently so had Derek which was just... weird.)

Figuring out the Oni were after them, Scott, Kira, Derek, Ethan and Aiden barricaded themselves in Scott's house, the Oni stabbed Agent McCall in the process, and apparently it was all for nothing since all the Oni did was look into their souls or whatever to make sure they were "still themselves."

"So if you're alright," Stiles asked, once he had worked up the courage to do so, "what are the Oni looking for?"

Scott shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "According to Katashi," he started.

"The Katashi who offered Argent $150,000 that he _didn't take?"_

"Yes." Scott said, a little annoyed. "According to him, the Oni are looking for a type of kitsune, one that's 1,000 times more dangerous than Kira. See there are all these types-"

"Which one is she?" Stiles asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew. Thunder and Ocean kitsunes were the kinds he had been able to find the most information on, and Kira fit one of those to a T.

Scott shrugged. "The one they're looking for, it's called void." he said with dread, and Stiles shuddered involuntarily. "Or nogitsune. It's not like Kira at all. Apparently while Kira is a kitsune, both in body and spirit, only a nogitsune's spirit is immortal. To have a body, it has to take over someone else's. And then, according to Katashi, there's no saving whoever it picks. The only way to stop it is to let the Oni destroy it."

"So it's a demon." Stiles said, and wow, everything was beginning to make a lot more sense. "Or kind of one, anyway. So the Oni are looking for whoever it's possessing?" Scott nodded, and Stiles felt a cold shiver of foreboding and guilt ripple through him. "Well what if-" he thought of the fireflies unceremoniously dropped onto the floor. "-what if the nogitsune destroys the Oni?"

Scott let out a laugh, sharp and stress-filled, but a laugh nonetheless. It was uncomfortably out of place in their solemn setting. "That'd be a neat trick." he said, clapping Stiles on he shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "You didn't see these things, Stiles, they were terrifying. I'm pretty sure they could take out anything."

"I wouldn't be so sure." Stiles said, and he could feel his tongue grow heavy, another threat. He had to chose his words carefully if he wanted to be able to say them at all. "People said the same thing about Lucifer." Stiles pressed, desperate to warn Scott, any way he could. "Look what happened."

For a moment, a flicker of doubt crossed Scott's face, but it was swallowed by bitter humor with ease. "Yeah, but look who they were up against." he said, nudging Stiles' shoulder amicably. "With you on our side, how could we lose?"

Melissa chose that moment to run over in a flurry and fetch Scott to see his dad, so they both missed Stiles' look of pure panic as they spirited away.

"Yeah." he said weakly to an audience of one. "How could we lose?"

How much could they lose?

 _Nogitsune._

The name tasted foreign on his tongue, and yet it seemed to fit somehow, like it it was a phrase he had forgotten for decades but was only now remembering. It sounded way too familiar for comfort.

 _How the hell did I not find anything out about nogitsunes?_

Stiles was miffed. 24 hours of research spent on kitsunes, 15 books and 26 articles read, and not a single one had mentioned the dark, _incredibly deadly_ kind!

Honestly, Stiles had expected better from a bunch of dusty, second-hand books that Sam had given him.

 _Sam..._ Stiles thought with a pang, the weight of his new knowledge making him squirm with dread. He had to tell his brothers. Had to. Even if they didn't believe him. Even if they had to put him down. If anyone could deal with a dangerous demon spirit, it would be Sam and Dean Winchester. Stiles fumbled in his pockets for his phone before he remembered that he was in pocketless hospital-issued sweatpants, and his phone was probably back in his room. He tried to stand up to go grab it, but suddenly his legs wouldn't cooperate. He must have looked odd, with his arms raised mid-air, intending to bring himself up, only for nothing to happen, and his arms dropped dreadfully at his sides. _No..._ Stiles thought panickedly. _Not again._

Stiles tried to roll his shoulders. They rolled. Stiles tried to wiggle his toes. They wiggled. Stiles tried to stand up again- and it was like his thighs were glued to the chair. The nogitsune did not want him to stand, and the acute control it had over Stiles' body was terrifying.

 _Careful, Stiles._ The raspy voice spoke, and Stiles wasn't even surprised, had been expecting this.

 _Or what?_ he challenged, despite his fear. Because he was a reckless Winchester and was finally wide-awake.

Instead of a voice, Stiles was met with an image. It wasn't a memory, couldn't be, because Stiles had never seen it before but suddenly it was all he could see. It was a large, forebodingly creepy building, flanked by two wrought-iron gates whose words Stiles couldn't make out. Between the house and the gates was a sizeable concrete courtyard that was riddled with corpses. There must have been at least 60. There were men, women, and children, some in uniform, some clearly civilians, all drenched in blood and gore, with glassy eyes staring at the colorless sky, some torn to shreds to the point of marred faces, and some marked only with a few deep gashes and open-mouthed looks of surprise. A few were perfectly captured mid-scream, empty eyes begging mercy even among the carnage. Stiles felt bile rise in his throat, and then the image evaporated as quickly as it came, until Stiles was left only with a heaving chest and the searing memory of the bodies. The thing, the _nogitsune,_ did not speak again, but the message was perfectly clear.

 _Or this._


	8. No Way Back

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading, and for the awesome reviews! Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, but hopefully you're consoled by the fact that this is the longest chapter so far! Yay! Anyway, this chapter is a bit odd, it's another one in-between episodes, in this case episodes 17 and 18, or in-between the hospital and when Stiles goes missing for a couple hours. The next chapter will pick up with the beginning of episode 18 and will follow it pretty closely so I recommend re-watching that one. As for this chapter, feel free to see it as an end to part 1 of the story, of sorts, because things will be a little different from here on out. Also, to respond to some reviews, I promise that Sam and Dean will be actually present later and quite soon in the story, it just hasn't been feasible to the plot yet. But it will happen, I promise! As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 8

No Way Back

Stiles was jittery as Isaac pulled up to the hospital, and it had nothing to do with the fact that someone else was driving his car, and everything to do with the fact that someone else had, at some point, driven his car.

The blackouts hadn't been blackouts. They had been the nogitsune twisting into his head, feeling around, slowly but surely gaining more control. It had used him to free Barrow, and had set Barrow after Kira knowing that Kira was a kitsune, and knowing that trying to kill her with electricity would result in foxfire. The nogitsune had needed the foxfire to cement its control over Stiles, to make the possession that much more permanent, and so it had taken control, positioned itself right, and after... it had stuck around. Tested the waters. Spun the false story to the cops and driven Lydia to the station and no one had noticed a thing because it had been far too careful.

"Hi." Isaac said casually as Stiles clambered into the passenger seat with sullen eyes.

"Hey." Stiles mumbled, eyes downcast. He was back in his regular clothes again, jeans and some band t-shirt Sam had gotten him, and the cellphone in his pocket felt like an anvil. "Scott's staying behind till his dad is out of surgery, says he'll pick you up at my house. How was the arms dealer?"

"Weird." Isaac said almost fondly, and Stiles did a double take as he realized that Isaac was driving his jeep in a somewhat ill-fitting suit. Huh. "How was the hospital?"

"Quiet." Stiles said, and it wasn't entirely false. Even as he had grown stronger, even as he had ripped shadows to pieces, they had never made a sound.

"Hm." Isaac said, eyes on the road, the lights of the streetlamps they passed shadowing his reflection. "Did Scott tell you what we're up against?"

"Yeah." Stiles said, and he watched Isaac carefully now, how he held himself too taut, how even though he was driving, he kept shooting Stiles subtle glances of misplaced awe.

"Ok, what is it you really want to ask me?" Stiles asked, and Isaac seemed to droop with relief.

"That obvious, huh?"

"Yeah." Stiles said, a little bemusedly, as Isaac shot him a wry grin. "What's up?"

"It's just..." Isaac began, and seemed unsure of how to continue, his mouth stretching around the awkward words for 30 seconds before he dared continue. "I heard about how Aiden treated you. I just wanted to offer congratulations, I guess. I never would have had the courage to take him down."

"Oh." Stiles' stomach sank through his chest and onto the jeep floor as guilt pumped where his heart used to be, because that had been awful and it had been all _him._

Isaac seemed to notice something was wrong if the suddenly alarmed look across his face was any indication. "Look, I mean-" he began frantically, "Scott isn't mad, and he didn't tell Aiden or Ethan about what you are-"

"No, it's fine." Stiles said sagely as he gestured for Isaac to stop speaking, trying to ignore the twisting in his gut upon hearing _what you are._ "I'll tell them eventually. Might wanna make them squirm for a while though." He shot a false conspiratorial smile, which Isaac returned in kind. The way the grin stretched unnaturally over Isaac's face had Stiles looking twice, and he

was hit with the jarring realization that Isaac- kind, puppy-dog Isaac- hated the twins so much that he enjoyed seeing their pain.

Stiles shuddered, and watched Isaac warily for the rest of the car ride. Isaac, assuming Stiles was exhausted from the appointment, noticed nothing amiss. And after a few short minutes, they arrived at Stiles' empty house, clambered out of the jeep, Isaac threw Stiles back his keys, and the two made their way inside.

Stiles' fingers twitched as Isaac made himself comfortable, anxious to get to his board upstairs and start working. It wouldn't let him talk, but if he could show people... Write it down without writing any words...

But Isaac was still here, stretching and yawning in one of the kitchen chairs, fingers wrapped around the mug of coffee Stiles had offered him, waiting for Scott.

Scott, with the blood on his jacket, and Stiles shuddered again because what the hell had Scott been thinking, using Derek and Ethan and Aiden as shields against the Oni when he knew, _he knew,_ it had to be pointless. It wasn't Stiles' fault Agent McCall had been stabbed, he saw that now, and it hadn't been Scott's either, not really- but it could have easily been Ethan or Aiden or Derek or Melissa or Kira, and that, _that,_ would have been Scott's fault.

"You're awfully quiet." Isaac remarked suddenly, jolting Stiles out of his brooding.

Stiles shrugged. "Long day?" It wasn't untrue.

"Yeah, sure." Isaac said, looking at Stiles shrewdly, making it clear he wouldn't pry, just this once. "Can I... can I ask you something?"

"Sure." Stiles said, even as his fingers itched for a pencil, or a lore book, something, anything...

"It's about demons."

Stiles' hands stilled.

"What about?"

"Well," Isaac started, then looked down at the floor guilty. "I wanted to know... how to kill them, I guess."

This time, Stiles dredged up the memory by himself. Blood and sunsets and a single gunshot-

"You want to know if the Colt can kill the nogitsune."

"Uh..." Isaac chuckled humorlessly and shifted in his seat uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the kitchen in unease. "When you get down to it, yeah."

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, his only movement since Isaac broached the subject, but before he could say anything- before he could think of what to say- a terrible idea struck him. He wasn't sure what origins it had, whether it was the nogitsune or his own deeply seeded fears, but he suddenly saw the consequences of his next actions.

He saw himself ambushed, held down by Aiden and Isaac, each with their own vendettas, as Scott with the blood on his jacket punched him in the stomach, making him sink to his knees, and then again, and again, till Stiles had focus to hear what Scott was saying. How Stiles wasn't Stiles anymore. How Stiles was a monster that needed to be stopped. How it was only fitting, perfect, that he was taken down by the weapon that had given him life. Scott stepped aside as Allison stepped forward, the Colt in her hand and aimed at his heart. Behind her were Sam and Dean and Lydia, watching uncaring to the point of being uninterested, and why should they care? They had all seen demons die before, what was one more?

"-Stiles?" Isaac asked, a little worried, and Sles blinked, erasing the nightmare. Isaac wasn't holding him down while a bullet went through his chest, he was sitting across the counter with a nearly empty mug of coffee and a well-worn expression of concern.

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking." Stiles said. "There are only a few things that can kill demons. My gun. My brothers' knife. Any angel blade, and some spells. The thing is, as far as I know, they only work with the most common type of demon. What Alexander was is nothing like the nogitsune. The way of killing Judeo-Christian demons might not- probably won't, actually- work."

"And the Colt?" Isaac asked a little too eagerly for Stiles' liking, his eyes darting upstairs unsettlingly. "Allison said that gun can kill anything."

Allison, who had prefered dementia to possession. _Which one are you hoping for,_ he asked, and she had chosen wrong.

" _Almost_ anything. Try shooting the devil and see what happens." Stiles supplied dryly.

"Would it work?" Isaac asked earnestly, leaning forward, clinging to Stiles' answer.

"I don't know."

Isaac scoffed. "Take a guess, then."

"Well, first you'd have to find who they're possessing, Isaac." Stiles said, more and more unsettled as Isaac's expression of concern started to change into something else.

Isaac shrugged. "Well, yeah. But after that." he said with an ease that made Stiles shudder.

 _He doesn't know he can't know he doesn't know-_

"And then you'd need to actually trap them, Isaac." Stiles said, some genuine alarm bleeding into his detached tone. "It's a demon. It's had who knows how long to learn how to trick humans. It wouldn't be easy."

"Well, no, but-" Isaac began, crossing his arms defensively.

"But then you'd have to kill someone, Isaac!" Stiles shouted sternly, standing up and slapping his hands down on the table, giving up on hiding his unease. "Hold someone down and shoot them! Kill someone innocent in cold blood! Are you actually telling me you could do that?"

"Well haven't you?" Isaac roared, also rising, towering over Stiles as he glowered, and the blood drained out of Stiles' face in shock.

"Alexander was-" Stiles tried to say.

"-a mistake?" Isaac taunted menacingly. "Don't insult me. I don't say much, Stiles, which means I see everything. And I know you don't actually feel guilty."

Cold panic cut through Stiles' heart, and he clenched his fists as if to stave of that thing, _the nogitsune,_ from taking over. But it didn't and it was all Stiles that looked into Isaac's eyes and grew terrified by what he saw there. How had he missed this?

"Maybe not." Stiles admitted, slightly softer but no less powerful. "But you can't use that to convince me, Isaac. It's not the same situation and you know it."

"Cause your life's not on the line this time?" Isaac accused harshly, and for a moment of delirious panic, Stiles had the urge to bend over laughing. If only Isaac knew.

"Cause it's _all_ of our lives on the line." Stiles said cooly. "You're not a killer and I know it. This thing is old, scary, and powerful. And we'll most likely have only one shot to take it down, which means if we catch it and you second guess and screw up, we're _all_ gonna die. Go ahead and tell me you're willing to risk that."

Isaac looked stunned, and silence stretched between them.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

Stiles slid back down into his seat and waited. It took some time for the tension and anger to uncoil from Isaac's body, but eventually he sat back down too, staring at his coffee mug with forlorn dread.

"Blue wouldn't be a very good color on you, Isaac." Stiles said at last, and Isaac slumped into himself upon hearing the words.

"Yeah." he said softly.

They sat there in silence for a good ten minutes, until the sound of a bike engine cut through the gloom. Ten seconds later, Scott waltzed in, helmet in his hand and slight confusion on his face as he glanced from Stiles to Isaac with curiosity.

"How's your dad?" Stiles asked, keeping his eyes on Isaac.

"He'll be fine." Scott said with a shrug, a tell of how worried he actually was. "If there are no complications, he'll be discharged tomorrow." Scott pulled out the chair next to Isaac and sat down, curling into himself. Distractedly, Stiles reached over and patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"Not to be rude." Stiles said after a few stagnant minutes, "But I was kinda hoping to get some sleep. So..."

Isaac and Scott shifted slowly out of their slumps, blinking furiously, as if being wakened from a daze.

"Uh, sure." Scott said kind of distantly. "Yeah, no, this day must've sucked. Of course, we'll leave you to it. But, um, first, do you have any books you can lend me? Anything you think might be helpful in figuring out how to deal with the nogitsune, so I can get a head start tonight?"

Stiles looked at the kitchen clock that read 9:00 pm and sighed. "I can't convince you to take a night off?"

"Nope."

"Alright then." Stiles said, slinking upstairs. He only spent a few minutes rifling through his collection, picking a few books of Japanese and other Asiatic mythologies. Few enough so that he could still do his own research, but numerous enough that Scott wouldn't be alerted to the fact that neither were taking the night off.

Upon reaching the stairs, Stiles heard the hushed tones of Isaac and Scott speaking quickly, and so, arms full of books, he crept down silently to listen.

"-hell were you thinking going behind my back?" Scott hissed violently, and Stiles couldn't see his face from where he hid behind the wall between the stairs and the kitchen, but he could perfectly picture Scott's face scrunched up in anger.

"I just thought-" Isaac began, meekly but remorseless.

"No, you didn't think. That's the problem, Isaac!" Scott retorted. "You asked me and I said no. Why couldn't you listen?"

"I just wanted to be sure-"

"No, what you wanted was to use Stiles to get what you wanted." Scott said coldly, and Stiles' heart jumped. "Ignoring the fact that he's our ally. Ignoring the fact that he's the most knowledgeable of any of us. Ignoring the fact that he's my _best friend,_ Isaac."

"I'm sorry." Isaac said, a tad more remorseful. "But if I could get the gun then maybe-"

Scott laughed once, sharply. "Stiles was never going to give you the gun." he said bitterly. "It's the most valuable thing he owns and not even I know where he keeps it. He wants it out of everyone's hands, and for good reason. I told you this when you first brought up this stupid plan. And I also told you that there's no way in hell that we're shooting whoever the nogitsune is possessing. Either we let the oni destroy the spirit, or we figure out a way to save them. That's it."

"But-" Isaac began.

"But I think you know what I'm about to say." Scott said firmly, finally. "That the main reason I knew this wouldn't work, didn't want it to work, is that Stiles has the same worry I do. That if you had this gun, you wouldn't use it on the nogitsune."

Isaac made a strange, strangled sort of noise, and Stiles could picture all too clearly the look Scott was leveling him.

The next time Isaac spoke, it was much softer. "Scott," he said, pleadingly, "I wouldn't-"

"So don't." Scott said, kind but immovable. "Leave the gun be."

Stiles could hear rustling, but couldn't tell what was happening, whether the shifting of Isaac's jacket was him nodding profusely or the creaking of Scott's leather was him reaching over to clap Isaac affectionately on the shoulder, but that must have been the case because the tension evaporated.

"Listen to me." Scott said, still serious but lighter now. "Stiles is our best advantage. He's the best critical thinker of any of us. As long as he's on our side, how could we lose?"

 _How much could we lose?_

"And I think he's been eavesdropping for long enough, don't you?"

Stiles took that as his cue. He entered with a sheepish smile, and nudged Isaac apologetically, but his arms were shaking as he set the mythology books down in front of Scott.

"There you are."

"Isaac." Scott said, eyes fixed on the spines of the books, reading the titles. "You wanna give us a minute?"

Wordlessly, Isaac stood, nodded to Stiles, and shuffled out the door. As soon as he was gone, Scott lifted his gaze and eyed Stiles searchingly. "You alright?"

"Fine." Stiles mumbled, even though he was so not fine. He paced up and down the floor so as not to show how restless he was, how much his legs twitched, fingers itched to be somewhere, anywhere but here, working.

"I'm sorry about that." Scott said, standing up, bundling the books in his blood-dusted jacket. "I should have warned you he'd try to take the Colt from you."

Stiles scoffed absentmindedly. "When would you have had time?" Scott shrugged. "It's all right, Scott, I know better than to give it to him. I meant it when I said it probably wouldn't work."

"And I meant it when I said we're not killing the vessel." Scott said gravely, eyes boring into Stiles uncomfortably.

Stiles felt exposed suddenly, and his paranoia yelled from somewhere in the back of his head that _he knew,_ Scott knew it was him, Scott would kick him in the stomach and then Allison would shoot him-

"I know." he said instead, holding his ground, when all he wanted to do was grab Scott by the shoulders and shake until he understood- "Don't worry. I'll do everything I can to ensure it."

"Good." Scott said. "Cause right now I have a lot to worry about. I don't need to worry about Isaac, too."

The pieces clicked for Stiles. "You're thinking of letting the twins into the pack?" He wasn't very surprised, nor did he particularly care.

Scott nodded. "I didn't want to, especially after what Aiden did to you, but at this point it makes sense. This nogitsune, or whatever, probably wants war. I'm going to need an army."

 _Especially since your dad got stabbed when the Oni were looking for me._

"No, you're right, it makes sense." Stiles assured. "Tell Isaac to get over it." If Sam and Dean could work with freaking _Crowley,_ then Isaac could work with some wannabe biker werewolves.

Scott winced. "It might not be that easy." he muttered. But then his eyes glinted mischievously and the grin he shot Stiles was wicked and easy. "That said, I'm not letting them into the pack until you tell them you're a hunter. Let's show them what they're up against if they push around. See if they still stay."

Stiles smiled back, forced and strained, but alive enough that Scott couldn't tell. "Yeah, sure, I'll do that tomorrow."

"Excellent." Scott said, and, satisfied, he ducked out of the house, taking a pile of useless books with him.

The door closed with a soft _snap!,_ and the grin vanished from Stiles' face. Soundlessly, he slinked back upstairs, his pulse roaring in his ears, drowning out the sound of Scott's motorcycle speeding away.

In the doorway of his bedroom Stiles paused, breathed in, breathed out, then flipped on the lights.

The blank space of his walls assaulted him, and at once Stiles was consumed with a surging need to fill it, to paste photos and string threads, to tell, to _warn,_ because something was in his head and no one not even Scott knew-

Stiles sprung forward and grasped the bundle of red thread by his bed. Red, it had to be red, because red meant he didn't know and he didn't know, he didn't know a thing, he didn't know a thing about what was possessing him and all he knew was that it was a kitsune and kitsunes liked tricks-

They liked tricks and they liked traps and they liked jokes so it would let Stiles tell, let Stiles leave a cryptic message, let Stiles do anything short of _spelling it out_ because it knew that no one would see until it was too late. Let them run around screaming while the real work began, let Stiles play a trick on them-

Stiles grabbed the red thread and tugged like a madman, unravelling it, pulling out shears and cutting it to pieces until it drenched his floor like blood. Then, with more care, he grabbed his computer and began frantically searching, printing out photos of the school, of the power plant, of Barrow, of the personal ones he had of Sam and Dean and his old tattoo, and then he searched and searched for the house in his vision, the old and creepy one with the wrought iron gates and then he found it and he wished he hadn't because, because. Because its name was Eichen House echo house and Barrow had been interred there and now things were starting to make too much sense and Stiles ended up printing a photo of that, too-

Then Stiles dived into his lore books and _tore,_ images and passages of demons and devils and kitsunes and protective symbols that were mostly useless, and then he found a miniscule passage in one of the oldest and dustiest and hardest-to-read books that was in Japanese and had been translated by Bobby ten years ago, and it wasn't about a nogitsune because there was _nothing_ about nogitsunes but it was about a symbol that looked like 7 overlapping stars that could trap _anything_ within the boundary of a room and Stiles reached to tear it out because _finally,_ something useful but-

-but then his hand stilled of its own accord, a reminder, a warning, and with a yelp Stiles frantically turned the page to one about ocean kitsunes, and of course, he should have known, because if you're tricking someone you can't make it too easy-

-and Stiles had to move, _now,_ because it would only give him so much time, and then it would take over and take him away because in order for the trick to be a trick people had to be looking in the first place looking for him-

Stiles lunged for his pictures and articles and thread and tacks and worked maniacally fast, panting for breath after just ten minutes of constructing his own little spiderweb. He started with the nemeton, of course this all started with the nemeton, pinning one of Lydia's numerous drawings to his wall and connecting it to a news article about the electrical storm the night of the sacrifice, and then he pinned that to a description of the sacrifice, and then he connected that to one of Kira's articles about Bardo, and then that to three different cultures' versions of demons, all with x's through them, and one he connected to a picture of red eyes, and one he connected to an arrow, and one he connected to a coyote trap, and the arrow and the red eyes connected to a picture of the forest preserve and a coyote, but the coyote trap went to a picture of his tattoo, then to Barrow, who was connected to an article about his bombing, and then a picture of Beacon Memorial, and then a picture of the school, and then the power plant, which had a thread connected to a passage about kitsunes, and a picture of Kira. The coyote trap was also connected to the power plant. The power plant then went to an article about the blackout, and then to a picture of Derek's loft, connected to a police sketch of the oni, and then Derek's loft was connected to Scott's house, along with another police sketch. Also connected to Scott's house was an old blurb about Katashi in a paper from twenty years ago. Scott's house then went back to the hospital, along with yet another police sketch, and Stiles reached for the green thread but couldn't, but never mind because then Stiles put up the last piece. Eichen House. This photo was one of the largest, and Stiles gazed at those ugly iron gates with unease as he tacked it to the wall. For some reason, the words on those gates were wrong, and yet he had no idea what they should say. Stiles put up the picture, and then with a fistful of red, he connected everything. He connected Eichen House to Barrow, and to the article about the bombing, and to the school, and to the nemeton, and to the article about kitsunes, and to the forest preserve, and to the coyote trap, and the power plant, and the Oni, and then he was done but it wasn't enough it wasn't clear enough but he was out of thread, he had to make it more clear, he had shown them all what had happened, now he needed to connect it to _him-_

Stiles tried to stand but his legs were glued to the bed-

 _Ten seconds, Stiles._ The voice whispered, and Stiles felt panic seize him because blue was black but his world was red because he didn't know what was going to happen-

 _Nine._ He had to tell them he had to. Most of the threads were hanging loose so Stiles grabbed them with his left hand-

 _Eight._ The nogitsune said, and Stiles didn't want to lose control but he had already lost control. The shears in his right hand were cutting into his skin red thread so Stiles wrapped the loose threads around them-

 _Seven. And then the real trick begins._ It taunted, and Stiles wondered how he got here but of course he knew, had just explained-

 _Six._ He must have missed something, something that made it all make sense, because up was down and blue was black-

 _Five._ Stiles' muscles started to tense on their own but that was ok because blue was black and that was what he was missing, his nightmares, he hadn't put down his nightmares and that was what had finally clued him in-

 _Four._ The scissors were a weight in his hand but that was ok because Stiles knew what to do. How many sleepless nights had he had on this bed-

 _Three._ There was something in his head and it was taking back control. Who knew where he would wake up-

 _Two, Stiles._ The thing taunted. _Unless you're dreaming._

"Oh, if only." Stiles murmured, and just as it whispered _one,_ Stiles plunged down, plunged the shears with the red threads connecting everything vindictively into his bed and stuck them there, marred his mark, connected everything to him.

 _No way back._ There's no way back now, Stiles thought deliriously, as his hands started to move by themselves, testing themselves out. No way back, there's no way back, it's all out of his hands now. Now they can know.

"They know, they know!" Stiles said with a light laugh, even as his shoulders rolled of their own accord. "They all know what I am now, and they'll be coming for you."

The nogitsune did not reply. But Stiles could image, as it began to put him under, that maybe it was a bit more impressed, a bit more wary as it ran away with his body.

 _No way back._ Stiles thought again, as he sank low on the bed, as he gazed at the wasted shears, as the blue walls of his room turned black, as his movement was erased and replaced with something dark and foreign, as he felt the space under his skin come alive, as he felt stronger than ever even while being dragged down.

 _No way back._ Stiles thought as he realized with a jolt that he might never have control over his own body again.


	9. Cold Day In The Sun

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! I'm so so so so sorry this chapter took so long! It took me forever to figure out and so of course I had no time to figure it out. I am very sorry but hopefully you guys can forgive me. Anyway, happy belated Halloween! Supernatural is back and awesome and Teen Wolf returns in 11 days. Whoo! So this chapter takes place at the beginning to middle of episode 18, 'Riddled,' and the next chapter will finish up the episode. I hope you guys like it, and hopefully the next chapter won't take a month (it won't.) As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 9

Cold Day In The Sun

"Scott?" Stiles asked shakily, clutching his phone so tightly it was in danger of shattering. He had woken up seconds earlier, eyes watering, shivering on a cold stone floor, wincing as a sharp pain flared in his right leg. He had somehow been wearing his pajamas, and his pockets had been empty save for his phone. A frigid wind had chosen to cut though while he was fishing his phone out, and so, fingers trembling, Stiles had been forced to dial the last person who had called him. Scott.

"Stiles?" Scott's voice crackled back, sounding half-asleep.

"I don't know where I am." Stiles said, as he looked around the bluish-grey basement, trying to keep a lid on his panic. The only light was filtering through from hole-covered tiles on the ceiling, and so all Stiles could make out were the walls, a staircase, several large objects, and only the barest details. "I-I think I was sleepwalking." It was kind of true, considering he hadn't come here awake. Though why the nogitsune had bothered changing into pajamas was beyond him. The thin flannel pants and t-shirt were doing nothing to stop the chill and the wind from seeping into his goosebump-covered skin.

"Stiles!" Scott said, much more awake, and much more panicked.

"It's dark." Stiles barrelled on, trying to make sense of his dim surroundings, talking over Scott, because lucid or not there was something in his head and who knew how long it would let him talk. "It's hard to see. I think-" The call cut out with a snip of static.

"No, no!" Stiles exclaimed, as his heart clenched at the words _no signal._ "No!"

 _Deep breaths._ Some internal part of him said that sounded an awful lot like Lydia. _Deep breaths. You can't afford to have a panic attack here._

"Okay." Stiles muttered to himself, shutting his eyes and tugging on his hair, trying to slow his rapid heart. "Okay. If I move, maybe I'll get a better signal." Slowly, Stiles moved his arms next to his sides, and tried to push himself up. However, he had lifted his torso only an inch off of the cold concrete before his arms began to shake violently, and, unable to support his own weight, he collapsed with an _oomph!,_ making the pain in his leg spike viciously. Stiles let out a frustrated yell that bounced off of the walls and, cautiously, he stretched out his arms in front of him to crawl forward. But of course it wouldn't be that easy. Stiles hadn't dragged himself a centimeter when something _yanked_ on his right leg, releasing pain up and down his entire side, and with an anguished cry Stiles collapsed in a heap on the stone tile, shivering, sobbing, the pain in his leg throbbing in time to his rapid heart.

 _Oh god, it hurts, it hurts so much._ Stiles thought, as he tried and failed to curl into a ball through the pain. He couldn't even roll on his back, or spend time wondering how a cold wind had blown through a windowless room, so much so was the pain. The only thing Stiles could do was blindly reach for his phone and pray the signal had returned.

The screen was a bright halo in the bluish-blackish dark, and so Stiles had to squint for several seconds before he saw the one, flickering bar. Yelping with joy, he frantically dialed, his fingers stepping over each other in their haste.

"Please please please please please..." Stiles muttered, fingers crossed, as the call ran through. Who he was pleading to, Stiles couldn't say. But surely there was one god his brothers hadn't killed yet.

"Stiles?" Scott's voice sounded from the static, worried and confused, and Stiles almost sobbed with joy. Almost.

"I don't think I can get out of here." Stiles replied, as level as he could muster, even as his eyes watered from the pain in his leg and the horrible smell he was just beginning to notice. "I can't move."

"Where are you?"

"I don't know." _Think. Come on, think. Tell him something useful. Tell him how to find you._ Stiles strained his eyes but only made out the same vague surroundings. "I can't see much. My- my leg's caught on something, I can't move it. God, it hurts."

"Are you okay?" Scott asked, saintly as ever, and Stiles wished more than anything he could say yes. But there was something in his head, and it had dragged him here, and he might never be okay again.

"I don't know." Dear lord, what was that smell? It was utterly repulsive, but now that Stiles focused on it, there was another smell underneath it. Coppery, and salty, and very very strong. "There's blood. There's a lot of blood. Something smells terrible down here. My eyes are watering."

"Let me call your dad." Scott offered, and panic closed around Stiles like a vice. Suddenly Stiles couldn't be bothered to make out the stone walls and the singular staircase and the lurking figure slouching in the corner, because suddenly all he could see was that dreadful vision of him being found out. His dad. Scott couldn't call his dad, because he _knew_ things and he would know what this really meant, would know what this is, would see through the lies and the blackouts to what was really wrong with him. And then Isaac and Aiden would hold him down while Scott clawed out his insides.

"NO!" Stiles shouted as he pictured that horrible scene again, again and again as Lydia stood idly by and Allison-had-shot-him- "No Scott, you can't tell him. Please _please_ don't call him, I'm begging you!" His dad, his real dad, his dad would know what was wrong with him and nothing got through John Winchester, not now, not ever, and Scott couldn't tell him.

"Well what if I can't find you?" Scott asked frantically, and only then did the vision erase to Stiles' dim surroundings.

"You can do it, Scott." Stiles said, mustering conviction through his shivering, his idle arm rubbing quickly up and down the one holding the phone, trying to fabricate even an iota of warmth. "You can find me."

"I-" Scott was starting to say in reply, but a haze of static muddled his would-be words, and Stiles pulled the phone away to see that the call had cut out once again.

"Dammit." Stiles muttered, his chattering teeth butchering the word. Another wind blew through the- basement, this was definitely some sort of basement. "Ok," Stiles murmured, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the figure in the corner. "Ok. Basement. That's something." Another wind ripped through the room, rustling the leaves nearby, and in the back of his mind somewhere Stiles probably knew that there was something wrong with this picture. There were things, important things he was glossing over, and details he was focusing on that couldn't matter less. His left leg wasn't hurting so much now that he wasn't moving, so that was something. "Scott can do this. Ok, there can't be very many industrial grade basements within walking distance of my house. Scott can just get my dad to draft a list and-" and nope. Because Stiles had told Scott not to tell his dad.

Ok, what had that been about? Stiles likes to think of himself as a rational person, and any rational person would not have jumped to the conclusion he just had, duress or no. There was really only one explanation. The nogitsune, even if he couldn't feel it, was still in his head, and it had hijacked his emotions somehow,, made him believe that telling his dad would make the vision come true. That was... That was concerning. Stiles tried to shiver but couldn't, and he knew that was a bad sign. It was too cold down here, he was getting hypothermia. And with his dad out of the loop Stiles could only hope that Scott had enough sense to go to his bedroom and see the wall, connect the dots... from the coyote trap to the chalkboard to-

"Eichen house." Stiles realized with finality. "I'm in Eichen house." Of course. It made so much sense. Why would a trickster allow Stiles to leave a worthless clue? Eichen house was one of the final dots on his wall, the mental facility that had housed the nogitsune's first pawn. Eichen house was, arguably, where this whole mess started. And, Stiles realized with a jolt, the nogitsune's home turf.

A shrill tone cut off Stiles' despondent thinking, and Stiles lunged for his phone, causing his leg anguish again, and he fumbled through the pain before answering the call.

"Did you call him? Did you call my dad?" _Please say yes please say yes please say yes-_

"No, just Isaac." Scott reassured, and Stiles' heart plummeted to the floor. "We're going to come get you."

"I'm in a basement." Stiles said hurriedly, softly so as to not wake the figure lurking in the corner. He didn't dare say Eichen house, he knew what would happen. "It's industrial. The walls are made of either stone or concrete, I can't tell. There's small holes in the ceiling, like I'm under a grate. It's the only light I have. And, there's large pipes along one wall, and they lead to-" Stiles froze in horror as his brain finally caught up with his eyes. The large pipes along the wall lead to a dark corner. Where something very humanoid was crouching.

 _-the figure lurking in the corner-_

How had he missed this?

"Why are you whispering?" Scott asked, and Stiles saw the figure twitch before the awkward angle of his neck forced him back on his side.

"Because-" Stiles breathed, as panic shot through him. "Because I think there's someone here with me."

The call cut out.

The call cut out, and Scott nearly tossed his phone to the wall in frustration. But that would do no one good, least of all Stiles.

"What do we do now?" Isaac asked amid the sea of red strings clinging to his shoulders. Scott sighed as he took in once again the insanity that was Stiles' room. It looked, for lack of a better word, ransacked. The door to Stiles' closet was flung wide open, and most of the drawers were open too, spilling clothes and books onto the floor. Scott glanced at the one closest to his feet and saw that it was a book about Japanese mythology. He scoffed, because of course Stiles hadn't taken a night off like suggested, and had kept the best research material for himself. Glancing away from the book, Scott also noticed that Stiles' desk was also chaotic, as if everything on it had been unsettled with one sweep of a powerful arm. And if that was chaos, it was nothing compared to the wall.

The wall hurt to look at. It wasn't just the sheer unorganized mania about it, or the plethora of bright red thread that assaulted Scott's eyes, it was more than that. It hurt to look at because it was finally concrete evidence of how much pain Stiles had been going through the past weeks. Scott could see, as he stepped forward, that the tension of each thread was equal to the tension in Stiles' shoulders, that all these pictures and facts and information and clutter had been weighing him down so much it had been a miracle that he hadn't sunk through the floor. And the shears. The shears were like a knife through Scott's heart, because there was so much anguish around them, it bordered on insanity.

"We need to find him." Scott said urgently, his eyes glued to those metal shears. There was something he was missing, some clue he was supposed to understand, because rarely did Stiles do anything without intent. But for the life of him, Scott was utterly lost. And those shears might as well be impaled in his best friend's chest, and not his mattress, for all the good Scott was to him. "There must be something here that can help us."

"How?" Isaac challenged as he looked around, clearly still bitter from his failed mission earlier. "It's all just a bunch of nonsense."

Aiden nodded in agreement and Isaac grimaced.

"You promised not to call his dad." Lydia mused, reaching for her phone. "I didn't."

"Wait." Scott said, reaching out to stop her. "Don't call him. Let's go to the station and tell him ourselves. This way we can help the police look."

Lydia frowned and gave him a searching look, before nodding and putting away her phone.

"Alright, let's go." Scott said in relief, more than happy to leave the board, and the misery embedded in it. Isaac turned to leave, as did Aiden, but Lydia stayed in place, looking both confused and determined.

"You guys go ahead." she said tentatively, and Aiden looked ready to argue, but Lydia shot Scott a look that almost made him fall over in relief.

 _There's some clue here._ Lydia seemed to say. _And I'm going to find it._ Scott nodded his approval, and then he and Isaac were off, away from the board and down the stairs, out the door, and into the night. Scott hastened to start the bike while Isaac dug out a flashlight from his backpack and started to test it.

The flashlight flickered to life, and Scott sighed in anguish.

The flashlight flickered to life, and Stiles whimpered in pain. Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself off of his stomach and onto his side, even as his left leg flared. Taking a deep, rattling breath, Stiles clutched the flashlight as tightly as his shaking fingers could muster as he began to sweep it around to his leg. What he saw on the way was unremarkable. There were dead leaves strewn on the floor. The concrete walls were just that. But his leg-

-his leg was in shambles. Immobile. Covered in enough blood to fill a river. And in the jaws of a wide coyote trap.

"Augh!" Stiles cried out, because seeing it somehow made the pain that much harsher. He shut his eyes, and noticed tears were trapped between them. Stiles breathed out a couple heavy, dry sobs, waiting for the bite in his right leg to die down. But it was when he tried to sit up that he heard it. Someone else, breathing harshly.

"Who's there?" Stiles spat. He got no response, of course, but faintly, so faintly he might have imagined it, he heard the figure in the corner shuffle around.

"I know you're there, I can hear you." Stiles tried again, trying to ignore how his voice shook. Gingerly, he cast the flashlight along the pipe, over to the dark, shadowy corner. At first he saw nothing but concrete and more pipes, but then something shifted, and Stiles' breath hitched when he saw it. It- it wasn't human, but it was certainly shaped like one, though far too bulky, as if the figure were wrapped in several layers of cloth. Its profile was aimed at him, and its mouth open, and Stiles shuddered as he realized the figure had no face and gleaming silver teeth.

"Who are you?" Stiles whispered as his hands shook. The figure did not respond, instead it held something small in its thick hand for Stiles to see. His stomach curdled when he realized it was a thin piece of chalk.

 _-19 53 88 19 53 88 19 53 88 19 53 88 19 53 88-_

The figure was crouched by a blank expanse of wall, and Stiles watched, horrified, as it slowly pressed the chalk to it and drew a singular symbol that resembled a backwards five.

" _No."_ Stiles whispered to himself, because he knew that symbol, had been taunted by it in the pages of his brothers' lore books. It was a Japanese symbol, a kanji, and it meant the most tempting thing in the world.

Self.

Another cold wind cut through the windowless room, and Stiles watched as the kanji was erased to a wisp of smoke.

 _Fitting._ Stiles thought bitterly as the figure turned its head towards him. _The oni are looking for someone who is no longer themselves. The are no more and neither am I._ Already Stiles could feel the effects of the hypothermia, and it was becoming obvious that the nogitsune had taken him here to kill him.

Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but when he opened them all he saw was bluish-black. His phone had died.

"No, no, no!" Stiles whispered desperately. He threw his phone to the side in anger but did not even hear it hit the concrete. Another wind cut through the room as he squinted, trying to make out the figure.

 _I have to get out of here._

Siles lunged for the trap on his right leg and _tugged,_ but all that was accomplished was the wail that was ripped from his lips. "WHO ARE YOU?" he shouted into the dark, desperately, he knew, but he was going to die so it was about damn time for some desperation.

Stiles was mad. Chilled to the bone with cold fury, he tugged and tugged on his leg again, trying to ignore the pins of pain up and down his left leg. He sobbed himself to hysterics with his frantic motions and he felt his leg get more and more sliced open, and the scent of blood grew stronger and stronger. Stiles was just beginning to wonder if he was actually going to tear off his own leg when that thing in the corner started speaking and suddenly he couldn't move.

The words sounded like sandpaper over ice, nonsensical to Stiles' ears but recognizable as Japanese.

"What?" Stiles murmured, not sure he wanted to know.

"Not who are you, Stiles..." the thing muttered in its unpleasantly gravelly voice. "Who are we?"

 _What?_

"Have you felt how cold it is, Stiles?" the thing continued, and something about it seemed unsettlingly familiar to Stiles. Something about that voice, the cadence, the rhythm. He had heard that voice before. But where? "You've noticed that we've stopped shivering. Do you know why, Stiles?"

He did. He could remember it like yesterday. November 12th, 2004. Some wayward campsite in Colorado. One of John Winchester's more creative hunting lessons.

 _He was standing barefoot at the campsite, while Dean was putting out the fire and packing up the tent. John stood in front of him, arms crossed, impervious to Stiles' shivering._

" _Ok, but why can't I put on my shoes?" Stiles questioned as he nudged woodchip with his toe. His jeans and long-sleeve shirt would keep him warm enough for the moment, but Stiles knew that all too soon that would no longer be true._

" _To make a point, Stiles." John said, and behind his shoulder, Stiles could see Dean stomping out ashes with unnecessary vigor, his expression troubled. "Since you do not come with Dean and I on the majority of our hunts, we have to expedite your training. Now, Wendigos are crafty creatures. They're just as smart as humans, and faster, too. It doesn't take them long to realize when a hunter is after them, and when they do, it gets messy, fast. If a hunter is lucky, he ends up with a destroyed campsite and no survival supplies. If he's unlucky, well, those supplies won't do him much good anyway."_

" _Ok," Stiles said as a cold wind blew around his goosebumped shoulders, rustling the leaves on the forest floor. "So, find the wendigo as quickly as possible, try to avoid more than a one-day trip, and triple the protection symbols around if you have to sleep."_

 _John nodded. "All important, Stiles, but not the point of this lesson. Wendigos are clever, and it is more than likely that they will successfully lure you away from the symbols. And if it attacks, and you're lucky, then you have more than one problem. You have a creature trying to kill you, yes, but your other enemy is probably the greater threat. A night alone in a cold climate."_

" _Okay." Stiles said. "So?"_

" _So," John said with a challenging gleam in his eyes. "What do you know about hypothermia?"_

Yes. Yes he did know why.

"My third grade science project." Stiles mumbled, because it was kinda true. Even if the experiment had been involuntary and his mom had blown a gasket when he'd gotten home. "Hypothermia. We stop sh-shivering because it's the-the body's way of conserving energy."

"Our feet are starting to thicken." the thing drawled, and something about those words unsettled Stiles to the very core. There was something very wrong going on here. "Then comes fatigue, confusion."

Or maybe nothing was wrong and Stiles was just dying and hallucinating. Again.

The thing moved closer, close enough that Stiles could make it out even in the dense blue-black. It ambled with an uneven gait, and up close, Stiles could see that it really was covered in tattered, yellow bandages. He drew away in revulsion.

"We're going to die if we don't get out of here." the thing muttered, and Stiles wanted to argue that it could get out just fine, _Stiles_ was the one connected to a freaking coyote trap, but just as the thought occurred to him, something else clicked that his cold-sluggish brain had been too slow to notice.

 _We stop shivering. Our feet are starting to thicken._

"Stop saying that, stop saying we." Stiles mumbled. The kanji burned neon-bright in his brain.

The thing ignored him. "We have to get out of here." it stated, in that awful, familiar voice.

 _No freaking duh._ Stiles thought, but another twinge in his left leg drew him back to anger.

"HOW, there's a steel jaw trap in my leg!" Stiles shouted, and he knew, he knew that his voice broke at the end, he knew there were tears in his eyes, but suddenly it was all a bit much because first the pain and now the 'we' and that word made Stiles grow cold inside because he wasn't himself, not anymore, he would always be 'we', and John had taught him about hypothermia but John would also shoot-him-in-the-chest-

"Are you sure about that, Stiles?"

 _What?_

Stiles looked down at the metal mess on his left leg. Yeah, he was pretty sure. But right as the thought occurred to him, his vision blurred, and the trap seemed to...move... from his left leg to his right... But no that wasn't possible, it was on his left, had always been on his left... But now there was pain in his right leg, pure agony...but no, now it was in his left...and if Stiles squinted through the blurriness it looked almost like the trap wasn't on either of his legs at all but lying next to him harmlessly.

"The trap was on your left leg before, wasn't it?" the thing said smugly, and Stiles jolted as he realized why it sounded so unsettlingly familiar. It was true, pain was now shooting up his right leg, but a lot of things were true now that shouldn't be.

Like how it was so cold in an insulated basement.

Like how the memory of hypothermia had dropped into his head.

Like how this wasn't the first time the trap had switched legs.

Like how things here were far too familiar. Like the kanji. Like the chalk.

Like how the light here was the same blue-black as the hospital.

Like how a wind had cut through a windowless room.

And, finally, horrifically,

Like how the voice of the thing in this room was identical to the voice of the thing in his head.

"We're trying to save you, Stiles." The nogitsune murmured dramatically but the effect was lost on Stiles now, and replaced with dull horror. "We're trying to save your life."

"You have a funny way of showing it." Stiles muttered as he gazed at the bandage-wrapped demon, as he thought of the one clue he left his friends that was now useless. "I'm not in Eichen House, am I?"

The nogitsune shook its head. "You don't understand, do you Stiles." It drawled. "It's a riddle. Do you know any riddles?"

Of course he did. Like how the hell would Scott find him now? Tears stung in Stiles' eyes as the hopelessness of his situation set in.

"What gets bigger the more you take away?" The nogitsune asked.

"A hole." Stiles replied. _A grave._ Stiles couldn't help but think instead.

"What gets wetter the more it dries?"

"A towel."

"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it."

"A-" _A soul,_ Stiles was tempted to say, but no, that wasn't true.

"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it."

"I- I don't know-"

"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it." The nogitsune said again, testier now.

"I don't know!" Stiles said, and maybe it was the cold or the exhaustion or the fear but his brain was blank-

"EVERYONE HAS IT, BUT NO ONE CAN LOSE IT!" The nogitsune roared, and Stiles flinched, and he wasn't scared often but he was trapped unalone in his own head-

"I DON'T KNOW!" Stiles roared right back, his voice leaching desperation, but that did not stop the nogitsune from snaking a bandaged arm around the coyote trap and giving it a vicious tug-

"NO PLEASE NO-" Stiles yelled as the pain turned from anguishing to blinding, as he was pulled helplessly along the room as smooth concrete turned to rough ground and the leaves rustled and the wind blew with a source and that smell was unbearable and he was awake now, but it hardly mattered because the thing in his head was tugging him along by the foot-

Stiles screamed and wailed and screamed again as he was pulled from the cave, out of his mind but locked in his head and before the hysteria left him completely he thought of how vindictively perfect that the first person he saw coming out of his madness was Agent McCall.


	10. Generator

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks for reading! Here's another chapter! So, this chapter takes place in the same episode as the last one. I took a scene in it and extended it a little (a lot) and changed some things. I figured since canonically, Stiles is passed out for a while at this point, rather than jumping to when he wakes up I'd take the time to explore some other characters. Hence this chapter. As always, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 10

Generator

Derek wasn't sure what to think about Aiden. Sure, the kid was a good fighter. Fast. Strong. And weirdly loyal, apparently. But he was also headstrong, and overemotional, and reckless, the type to lash out rather than analyze a situation thoughtfully. And, yeah, they had kinda been on opposite sides of a werewolf war for a few good months. Like he said, Derek wasn't sure what to think. So, Derek was reasonably surprised when he woke in the middle of the night to several missed calls from Scott, and Aiden on his doorstep.

"Lydia sent me." Aiden said by way of explanation, exhaustion and frustration dripping from his shoulders, his face scrunched into a scowl. "She's currently at the sheriff's station, and Scott is at the hospital with his parents. You really need to answer your phone, man."

"What?" Derek asked as he fished for his jacket and car keys. "What the hell has been going on?"

"I'll tell you on the way." Aiden said, shooting the bare loft a cursory glance, his eyes pausing for a moment on the center of the shiny metal floor. "We're going to the hospital. Bring jumper cables."

"Do you have to be so vague?" Derek asked annoyedly as he finally found his keys- in his jacket pocket of all places- and followed Aiden swiftly out of the loft. Aiden gave the outside hallway another odd glance, but then the two were moving quickly, out of the building and into the black morning, up to Derek's Camaro.

"Did you run here?" Derek asked as Aiden folded into the passenger seat.

"The jumper cables?" Aiden answered impatiently, obviously irritated with Derek's hesitation to get in the car.

"In the trunk." Derek said as he clambered in, and Aiden's shoulders started to droop. "But slow down for a second. What the hell is going on?"

"It's Stiles." Aiden said bluntly. "Now can we _go?_ "

"Alright, alright." Derek muttered as he started the car and peeled away. Aiden was silent as they made their way into town, trees and streetlamps zipping by like flies. The silence in the car was heavy with Derek's unanswered questions and Aiden's obvious internal struggle to reveal them. Derek was keeping his eyes on the road, so he couldn't see much, but Aiden was taut with energy and staring blankly out the window, his brow furrowed in concern.

"What about Stiles?" Derek finally asked, because if he gets woken in the middle of the night he deserves some freaking context.

"He- um... " Aiden frowned, as if pondering how best to say this. "He went missing for a couple hours. And then Agent McCall found him. In a cave. In the woods. Sleepwalking. Nearly hypothermic. They're keeping him under observation, and Scott says they'll be running tests tomorrow."

Derek blinked slowly, processing this. Okay, maybe Aiden had a point about answering his phone. "...what?"

Aiden shrugged. "It's weird." he said flippantly.

"Right..." Derek said. There was clearly more to it than that, if the way Aiden's hands were clenched was any indication. "So... we're going to the hospital to visit Stiles?"

"No, we're restarting Stiles' jeep. Hence the jumper cables."

Derek frowned. "Okay... that doesn't make any sense, but sure. Let's go do that. Any time you want to stop being cryptic, you just let me know."

Aiden fidgeted in his seat, scowling. "I'm not _trying_ to be unhelpful. You have every right to know what's going on." A streetlamp zoomed by, and the orange light filtered through the car at such an angle that it turned Aiden's scowl into a look of remorse.

At least, it was probably the light. Had to be.

"It's just..." Aiden continued, and no, Derek was not imaging the melancholiness in Aiden's voice. "There's something wrong going on here. Really wrong, and I think I'm the only one that realizes it. And I can't tell anyone, not Lydia, or Scott..." Aiden winced, and Derek wondered not for the first time exactly what was going on between the twins and Scott. "This idea that I have, it's pretty bad. My standing with everyone is so weak that they'll jump down my throat rather than listen. I need someone who's more on the outside. Ethan definetly won't believe me. Deaton doesn't trust me either. That just leaves you." Aiden turned to face Derek, and it was probably just the light, or the lack of it, but his expression was solemn and pleading. "I can't tell you because you need to see it for yourself. You need to believe me."

Derek wasn't sure what to make of Aiden. He hadn't known him well enough to pick up visual clues about what he was actually feeling, and he definitely hadn't known him long enough to foster any sense of trust. But Aiden's heartbeat was steady, and his tone sincere. And so, Derek found himself intrigued.

They pulled up to the quiet, nearly-empty parking lot, right next to Stiles' jeep. Derek got out of the car, and then retrieved his jumper cables from the trunk and opened up the hood. "Think Stiles'll mind if I break the window?" Derek asked as he eyed the dark husk of the car. It seemed much more demure without its usual spastic occupant.

"There's no need." Aiden said from his shoulder, and Derek nearly jumped because damn, that kid might be quieter than Isaac. "The door's unlocked. The keys are in the ignition."

Derek frowned. "Well that's..."

"Odd." Aiden finished, looking grim. "Yeah, you're telling me. But trust me, it gets weirder." Aiden sauntered over to Stiles' car and popped the hood, and gestured for Derek's jumper cables. Derek obliged, and he watched as Aiden attached two of them to the battery. "That new deputy, Parrish, thinks Stiles drove over here and left his lights on, and that's why the battery died." he explained as he worked, his voice slightly muffled.

"That'd be quite the feat considering he was supposedly sleepwalking." Derek remarked, beginning to grow unsettled.

"You think?" Aiden mumbled. "But no, Agent McCall swears by it. Stiles was asleep when he found him in the cave. He woke up screaming when he was dragged out by his foot. And yet somehow he not only drove here and walked over to the cave barefoot and in pajamas, but he also had three comprehensible phone conversations with Scott."

"That's... Impossible." Derek muttured.

Aiden straightened up with a vindictive gleam in his eyes. "It's not." he said. "There's a perfectly reasonable explanation. But I'm the only one who seems to see it. Then there's this." Aiden beckoned Derek over to the driver's side of the car. "You see this, here?" He pointed to a knob at the top of the windshield-wiper lever. "That's what turns on the lights."

"And?" Derek asked a little impatiently.

" _And,_ " Aiden continued with a pointed look. "It's off. The lights weren't on. So tell me how the car died?"

Derek shrugged. It seemed strange, yes, but if there was one thing living as a supernatural creature had taught him, it was that there was a reasonable explanation for everything. Even if that explanation involved werewolves, kitsunes, etc... "Maybe someone came in and turned it off. The door was unlocked."

"Who?" Aiden asked, with an intensity that was borderline unsettling. His eyes were wide with crazed enthusiasm. "When? Why? No one outside of this situation has any reason to do this, Derek, and everyone has an alibi."

"Yeah, well what's yours?" Derek asked sharply.

Aiden's expression was grim. "I was at the high school with Lydia when she heard Stiles' voice screaming on the radio." he said. "Then we ran to his room only to find a mess of red string and photos taped to the walls, ran into Scott and Isaac, sent them away, and then Lydia pulled on a string and got weird banshee vibes so we trekked to this creepy madhouse on the outskirts of town and searched the basement, found out Stiles had been found, then I came with Scott to the hospital to take a look at the Jeep, found the lighting problem, and got you."

Derek whistled. "You've been busy." he muttured. "How the hell did you get involved in the middle of this? Isaac _hates_ you, and yet you ended up working with him."

"Wrong place wrong time." Aiden said with a shrug. "Wrong girl, wrong date, wrong eye color, wrong backstory. I'm expecting the pattern to continue. But that's not the point. Someone drained the battery somehow, and I don't mean tampering the car. Someone actually removed electricity from the car by hand. Like an induction."

Derek wasn't so keen on glossing over Aiden's little struggle with self-importance, but he was right, there was something strange going on, and that merited more of Derek's attention. "Can that even be done?" he asked, feeling more and more like he should have payed more attention in high school since all these kids were apparently smarter than him-

"You tell me." Aiden said. He walked away from Stiles' jeep and back over to the hood of Derek's camaro. "The other day I almost got stabbed in the chest with a _shadow._ I think we have to reconsider what is and isn't possible. I don't know much about Japanese mythology or nogitsunes or sleepwalking or REM or whatever the hell happened to Stiles this morning. But I know a little something about lying to your friends."

The glint in Aiden's eyes was determined, forceful, and despite his inhibitions, Derek found himself leaning forward to see what he had to say.

"The other day, I overheard Stiles tell Scott something. About how he thought he was the one who wrote the message to kill Kira."

Derek scoffed, because he knew if Stiles wanted Kira dead then she would be. "And?" he challenged. "Was he lying?"

"No." Aiden said solemnly. "Makes you wonder, though, how I was even able to tell. His heartbeat's always so damn steady."

Derek smirked, but his eyes froze on the image of Aiden, the epitome of calm, cool, and calculating. This, this was new. Derek knew why Stiles' heartbeat was always steady, of course. That memory would be seared in his brain for all of time. But this, if Aiden was to be believed, was certainly concerning. Why hadn't Scott told him?

"What are you thinking?" Derek dared, even though part of him already knew.

"Well that's just it." Aiden said, crossing his arms defensively, meeting Derek's inquisitive stare with an angrier one of his own. "I'm not the only one thinking it. Granted, I am the only one out of the loop on whatever it is you're hiding. But whatever big secret you think you're keeping is obviously blinding you from the truth. So I have to say it."

Derek pressed his lips thinly together. He knew where this was going. It's true, the thought had occurred to him, too. Stiles' strange behavior- his anxiety, his jumpiness, the way the life seemed absent from his eyes- had set off some alarm bells. Before Derek remembered that as a hunter, Stiles would be protected from such mundane things as possession. And, as much as Derek was adverse to admitting, there was a perfectly medical explanation to Stiles' problem. Yes, Derek knew what Aiden was thinking. And Aiden was wrong.

"You think Stiles," Derek began, and oh, this would be good. "Skinny, weak, defenseless Stiles, is the nogitsune?"

"He didn't look so defenseless while he was beating me unconscious." Aiden retorted.

Derek restrained the urge to throw his arms up in exasperation. Barely. "That's cause he's a _hunter!"_ he exclaimed, and Aiden had the decency to look shocked. "He's been training to take guys like you down since he was four! That's it! That's the big secret!"

Aiden shifted on his feet, looking uncomfortable. "There's still things that don't make sense!" he insisted. "The bad-smelling blood on your loft floor, the stain you can't seem to get rid of no matter how hard you try-"

"-is demon blood." Derek finished. "From a guy Stiles shot in the head two weeks before you came back to Beacon Hills. Stiles isn't hiding anything from us, Aiden. His only secrets are from outsiders like you."

Aiden winced, and Derek tried not to get any satisfaction from that. "But-"

"-But let's say you're right," Derek said, calmer now, almost mocking, bending over to connect one of the jumper cables to his own car battery. "Let's say the nogitsune did possess one of us. It wouldn't be Stiles! For all his fighting skill and training, his greatest weapon against you was the element of surprise. He wouldn't stand half of a chance against someone who was actually cognisant of the extent of his abilities. Why would the nogitsune settle for that when it could have someone who heals instantaneously or has super strength? Why wouldn't it go for someone with more power?"

"You mean, like the power to blow up a power grid and cause a city-wide blackout?" Aiden asked.

"Exactly."

"Interesting." Aiden mused. "You know what I learned from being in the Alpha pack? Power is relative. And there's nothing more powerful than getting other people to fight your battles for you."

"So?" Derek asked.

"So the big and strong guy at the front of the fight is worthless without the mastermind at the back pulling the strings. You say Kira is powerful because she was able to blow the power grid on a decent-sized city by accident. I say the only person more powerful than her is the one who wanted that to happen and ensured it."

"You're being ridiculous." Derek said. "No one wanted the power grid to blow. Kira was supposed to die there. She would have if Barrow had picked anything but electricity to kill her. And Barrow wouldn't have even gone after her if-" Derek broke off, looking thoughtful. _-if someone hadn't told him to._ If no one had left that message, Kira wouldn't have been taken. That had been bugging Derek ever since it had happened. Who could have possibly known about Kira? Who could have wanted to hurt her? Until today he had had no idea. But if Aiden was even remotely right...

"If Stiles." Aiden said sternly. "Come on, Derek, finish the thought. Barrow wouldn't have tried to kill Kira if Stiles hadn't told him to."

"If Stiles had wanted Kira dead, she'd be dead." Derek said with a mocking smile.

"Well what if Stiles hadn't wanted her dead? What if that outcome was exactly what was supposed to happen? I mean, didn't Scott lose track of him in the plant? Wasn't Stiles the one who lied to the cops? While we're at it, wasn't the building where my girlfriend swore Stiles was last night the mental facility that Barrow escaped from in the first place?" Aiden asked, his tone growing louder and more incessant with every passing minute. "You want someone with power? Try the only person in town with the knowledge, resources, and patience to pull something like that off. I know I'm right, Derek. And I think you know I am, too."

"I-" Derek started to say, but he found himself at a loss for words. Aiden's argument, far-fetched as it was, as almost starting to sound convincing... Yes, lots of strange things had happened the past week, but this was _Stiles,_ the human, the researcher, the skinny, snarky, _idiot..._

...who not one week ago walked out of a fluctuating power station unscathed and unnoticed. No, Derek realized with a jolt, what human could do that?

"H-how can you be sure?" Derek asked softly, as his world imploded, and the angry expression on Aiden's face dropped.

"Because Stiles told us." Aiden said quietly. "Remember that thread board I mentioned? Lydia and I both knew it was a clue, but she had the wrong idea. She was looking for subtleties, inconsistencies, and came up empty till I pulled on a thread and set off the voices. But me, I saw something else. The board was put up in a hurry. Stiles was panicking, trying to tell us anything of worth before he got taken. He didn't have time for subtleties so he went with the blatantly obvious. None of those threads went anywhere useful until he stabbed them all into his mattress."

Derek shuddered, and he could picture it all too clearly. Stiles, on the brink of madness, raising shears with a powerful arm and plunging them in with the same cold determination that had killed Alexander.

Of course. Of course the nogitsune had chosen him.

"We need to warn Scott." Derek said curtly, starting for the hospital, but Aiden grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to a halt.

"No, you need to get proof." Aiden said sincerely, his eyes urgent. "You know Scott. You know the pedestal he puts Stiles on. He's not going to believe the likes of me."

Derek was about to ask how the hell he was supposed to find proof when he remembered the power station. What were the odds that the nogitsune, in its hurry to create foxfire, left a trace.

"What are you going to do?"

Aiden grimaced. "I'm going to keep an eye on Lydia." he said. "She won't like it, but what happened this morning, aside from it being really weird, is concerning. She's not wrong about this stuff. And yet, this morning, she was."

"Maybe..." Derek said, trying to recall everything his mother ever told him about banshees. "Maybe Stiles knew he was going to be taken. Maybe he was trying to say where as well as say he was possessed. And maybe he just guessed wrong."

"Or maybe we're reading too much into this." Aiden mumbled. "Maybe we've been fooled all along. Maybe Stiles hasn't been himself for a long time."

"We can't think like that." Derek said sternly. "We have to assume that until this morning, Stiles has been interacting with us as himself. Innocent until proven guilty, Aiden."

"And hopeful until proven dead." Aiden retorted bitterly. "You wonder what's going to happen to us if the nogitsune figures out we know before we tell Scott?"

"Nothing." Derek said calmly. "You don't know kitsunes like I do, Aiden. They're tricksters. They love pulling pranks and telling riddles, and they live for the long game. It isn't a coincidence that the vessel the nogitsune chose is the person closest to our alpha. It picked the person who'd rattle us the most, the hardest one of our own to kill. It wasn't ever going to hide its identity because the knowledge of who it is possessing is messing with us. It _let_ Stiles put up the board. It _wanted_ us to figure out what it really meant. Killing the car battery, taking Stiles to that cave, it was all part of some larger plan. And the gears are still in motion. The only way out is to think carefully about our next move."

Aiden crossed his arms and shuddered. "I don't like feeling controlled."

Derek tried to smirk playfully but in the dark mood, it ended up turning into a grimace. "Not sure why you'd want Scott as your alpha, then. In case you haven't noticed, he has a tendency to micromanage."

Aiden scowled. "You of all people know how hard it is to be a wolf without a pack. Don't question my motives." Aiden pulled Stiles' keys from his pocket and marched over to the Jeep, all but slamming the door behind him. With a sigh, Derek retreated into his own car and started the engine. Aiden did the same, and after a few tense seconds, Stiles' Jeep roared to life. With a nod of satisfaction, Aiden turned off the car, left the keys in the glove compartment, and stepped back out into the brisk air.

Derek left his car as well, and the two disconnected the jumper cables and coiled them in silence.

"You know what I've noticed?" Aiden muttered after a moment, his eyes trained on the dark pavement. "Lydia's... intuitions, or whatever you want to call them, get stronger the closer her connection is with someone. If we're right and Stiles is the nogitsune, she's going to get assaulted. Every time he kills someone, she'll feel it. Every time something is wrong with him, she'll know. And she's strong, and I know she can handle it but... but I don't want her to have to. If Ethan and I were still linked, and this were him, I'm not sure I could handle physically _feeling_ something else take him over. Knowing when he's done something unforgivable. Watching him realize there's nothing I can do to help."

Derek for once, didn't really know what to say. His family had been dead for years, and he'd numbed himself to the ones still alive due to his constant fear of yet more betrayal. He helped his pack because he liked them well enough and knew it was the right thing to do, but he knew that it was mainly just going through the motions. He hadn't felt close to anyone in years, and up until this moment, he hadn't really cared. But listening to Aiden, a boy he would have pegged hours ago as a stone-cold sociopath, express something _emotional,_ it got Derek wondering. If Aiden, ruthless killer, could have some semblance of empathy, well, where did that leave Derek?

Aiden continued to stare sullenly at the ground, and Derek began to grow more and more uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, and Aiden jumped a mile high, his sad expression swiftly replaced by one of ambivalence.

"Right," he said, not convincingly at all. "I'm going to take Stiles' jeep over to the station. You see what you can find at the power station. I'm guessing you should probably take Kira with you. She's weird but she might be useful."

"Gotcha." Derek said, nodding in what he hoped Aiden saw as an understanding that most of this conversation would not be repeated. "I'll come back here as soon as I find anything. Who knows? Maybe we're wrong."

"You know we're not." Aiden said gruffly as he started for Stiles' jeep. "Be careful." Then he was gone, and Derek was left alone in the hospital parking lot at freaking 5 in the morning, heart sinking with the dreadful situation that was his life.

Maybe part of him did care, because he hadn't told Aiden everything. Like how part of the reason he was so adamant against Stiles being the nogitsune was because part of him knew it was the worst possible outcome.

Yes, Stiles was human. Yes, he was physically weaker than most.

But everyone trusted him. Everyone told him secrets. And in return he had lied to them for _years._

If Stiles was the nogitsune, then Derek was not entirely sure the pack would win. Because cold, calculating, dangerous Stiles, was one of the few people on this world who Derek was truly scared of.


	11. But, Honestly

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! Sorry this chapter took so long. It's also another filler, for which I apologize, but the next one will have plenty of action. Anyway, Teen Wolf is back, and it's pretty good! I am looking forward to the more Stiles-centric episodes, though. Those should be interesting. Supernatural is also pretty good, if you guys have yet to check that out. I'd like to take a moment to address the singular (come on, guys) new review: in regards to The Ultimate Battle of Wits, I am so happy you enjoy it, and I would love to update it. But I can't, cause I don't have anything more written, and I won't for a while. That story was awesome and super fun to write, but then I hit a wall and couldn't keep going with it. I think what happened was I got to a situation where the bad guys won, only they obviously couldn't so I had to fix it, and I did too much of a stretch to do that. Anyway, some day I'll go back and write the final chapter (titled Salvation), but as of now the writer's block on it is so strong that I am probably physically unable to. I am sorry about that, but know that you can continue to my other stories without missing any information, which are, unlike TUBW, complete. Hope that helps! On another note, I can say with confidence that the next chapter will not materialize until some time after December 16th. If it does, I am way too good at procrastinating and need to be stopped. Until then, review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 11

But, Honestly

It wasn't the beeping monitors that woke Stiles up from his half-drugged sleep, or the strange metallic taste in his mouth, or the presence of someone else sitting in his room, watching him. It was his bed. More specifically, it was his bed being too soft and yielding instead of the cold ground, and it was this realization that made Stiles know he had been moved, and then he shot awake in wide-eyed panic because _where had it taken him now?_

"Stiles! Stiles!" Someone said urgently, hands on his shoulders, trying to force him back down as he sat upright and heaved deep, shuddering breaths. His eyes swimmed around the room, taking in the sterile setting, the IV attached to his hand, the monitor beeping in time to his rapid heart, and the flurry of dark hair and worried eyes currently trying to shove him back into his bed.

"Allison?" Stiles croaked, locking on to her eyes. Within their warm, brown hue he found concern and anguish. It was real. They were real. He was in a room, a hospital room, not some random patch of the woods. Not anymore.

"I'm here, Stiles." Allison said, exhausted, as Stiles' heart rate began to slow and he leaned back.

"I... I'm sorry." he mumbled as she sat back down in a red plastic chair by his bed and crossed her legs. Upon hearing his words, her expression melted from exhausted stoicism to just exhaustion.

"You don't need to apologize." Allison murmured. "Anybody would be freaking out in you position."

Stiles grimaced because that wasn't true. Anyone else in his position would have told their friends the truth. Stiles nodded mutely and looked out the wall of windows on his left side. The light was slanted, but pouring into the room at a rate that made it look almost cheerful.

"It's 1 in the afternoon." Stiles said quietly, and Allison nodded. Not looking away from the window, and the vivid blue sky, Stiles took a deep breath and steeled himself before asking the next question. "What time's the test?"

"Stiles-" Allison started, heartbreak in her voice, but Stiles didn't care.

"What time, Allison?"

"6." Allison mumbled. "Stiles, if you don't want to... you know you can always-"

"What? Not take it? Postpone it?" Stiles asked bitingly, his eyes still trained on the bright, far-too-cheerful world outside. He didn't want to see the look of hurt on Allison's face that he knew would be there. "You know, you might have a point. It's not like we don't know what the results will be."

Allison gasped. "Stiles! You can't just-"

"Can't what?" Stiles challenged, his voice acid. "Assume things? Hope for the worst? Why the hell not?"

"You know why." Allison said lowly. "It might not be- what you think it is." She couldn't say the name. Interesting. "It might be something else. We have to hope."

"Oh that's rich." Stiles drawled, turning toward her now, and he thought how fitting it was that she was illuminated in sunlight while he had his back to it. "Weren't you, just the other day, hoping for _this_? It's the better alternative, and you know it Allison."

"Don't do that." Allison said sternly, her sad and worried eyes narrowing defensively, and Stiles grimaced because he knew this would happen. "Don't twist my words. I never wanted this for you and _you_ know it, Stiles."

"You got a funny way of showing it." Stiles pandered.

"I have a funny way of showing how I'd rather you sick than possessed?" Allison asked with a bitter laugh. She threw her arms up in exasperation. "Fine, consider me guilty! You're right, Stiles, as you always are. I'd rather you wasted away then died by my arrow!"

"Well are you happy now?" Stiles demanded, his voice raised, and Allison flinched but he couldn't care.

"No, I'm not!" Allison shouted, rising up, towering over him in all her fury. "I'm not and you know it! You wanna know why you're mad at me, Stiles? You wanna know why you haven't seen me since that trip to the hospital? You wanna know why I was hoping you were sick? It's cause I knew you weren't!"

Stiles stopped in stunned silence. Allison's voice reverbed around the room long after she finished speaking, huffing from all her anger and energy, her eyes bright, and Stiles was forced to stare at her in amazement. He had forgotten, in his worry and panic, that he was not the only one to be underestimated.

Stiles stared at Allison in shock and awe, but it wasn't anger that he was feeling as he lied further into his bed. It was relief. It was flooding through his system, relaxing all his muscles, and Stiles hadn't realized how heavy this secret had been until now. He still felt dark and tainted, sure, but now they could know. Slowly, Stiles raised his hands in surrender. As Allison sat back down slowly, Stiles thought about his next move. He could lie, but no, she would see right through it. He could admit it, but no, the very idea of doing that was making his heart rate spike. Besides, there was no way it would let him. He settled instead for the vague but blatantly obvious.

"You know it can hear you, right?"

Allison nodded, and Stiles saw her face fall just a little bit. It was one thing to have suspicions, but confirming them always did have a bitter aftertaste.

Stiles wondered if she saw him differently now, less of a comrade and more of a danger. He took a deep breath and decided that it didn't matter. "Allison I'm-"

"Don't." she said forcefully, her eyes boring holes into the floor. "Don't apologize. It isn't your fault. "

"Don't be so sure." Stiles mumbled, eyes trained on his very fascinating blanket. He thought of all the times he could have told Scott what was really going on with him instead of sneaking out. He thought of how much more he could have told his brothers, enough to finally prioritise him and drive to Beacon Hills in a frenzy. He looked bravely up from the blanket and met Allison's eyes, and the breath was nearly knocked out of him when he saw the same crestfallen regret on her face.

Of course. She was supposed to be good at this, too.

"I know what you're thinking." she said softly. "And if it helps, you left as many clues as you could. Scott and the others aren't like us, Stiles. They aren't taught to look for patterns and inconsistencies the way we are. They aren't taught that what's absent is just as important as what's there."

"Who are you trying to convince?" Stiles asked reproachfully after a beat of silence. "Me or you?"

Allison sighed, a long, drawn-out exhale that disturbed the dark hair swept over her forehead. She bit her lip and smiled tightly. "Both of us, I hope. Is it working?"

"Not really." Stiles said honestly. Despite the new layer of warmfuzzy in his brain, deep down he still felt guilty.

Allison shrugged. "You can't say I didn't try." Her words were flippant, but Stiles took them for the sincere message they were meant to be. She stood up suddenly and stretched, and Stiles was immediately reminded of a cat. "I'm sorry, Stiles." she said. "But I have to get back to school. I have-"

There was some false excuse on her tongue, but she seemed to realize just in time that it didn't matter what she would have said. Stiles would have immediately caught her lie.

"It's alright, Allison." Stiles said, because it was. He understood, even if he hated it, that knowing he was possessed changed things for her.

Allison smiled warmly, or tried to, and turned to leave, her expression of calm breaking just before her face was out of sight. Stiles did not like what he saw in its place. She looked... haunted, almost.

And then she was gone, and Stiles was alone with his thoughts. And his cell phone, which was lying conveniently by the bedside table, fully charged.

Stiles didn't think as he picked up the phone and dialed the numbers in a hurry. Didn't think about the fingers that weren't being stopped. Didn't think about how the line barely rung before the call was answered.

"Stiles!"

"Dean?"

Around that time, Kira was being pulled out of school by a surly Derek, their matching leather jackets earning curious looks as the two headed to the power station. Kira, of course, had no idea what they were looking for, but Derek had an inkling of an idea. A bad feeling he hoped wasn't true.

"Dean?" Stiles asked in confusion. He frowned, and pulled away from his phone, checking the number on top of the screen. No, he had definitely dialed correctly. "Why am I talking to you?" Stiles asked with just a hair of suspicion. "This is Sam's phone."

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Stiles could picture all too clearly Dean's sheepish grin as he tried to concoct a believable lie. Stiles had been on enough cases with his brothers to immediately recognize the tells.

"Sam is- Sam's busy. With- um, with... Cas. Yeah, they're on a hunt-" Dean rambled, and at the word _Cas,_ a cold feeling spread from Stiles' chest all the way to his fingertips. He felt... well, 'betrayed' wasn't exactly the right word, but it was close.

"They're in Iowa, you see. There's this vengeful spirit tearing up random cornfields... Now normally that wouldn't be too much of an issue except this ghost somehow also has a spectral tractor that eviscerates anyone who tries to stop him-"

"Dean, stop." Stiles said firmly, and Dean's background tirade of an imaginary ghost came to an abrupt halt. Stiles felt his heartbeat in his ears as he clenched his fingers and tried with all his strength not to snap at his idiot of a brother.

"Cas is dead, Dean." Stiles spat bitterly. Oh well, he tried.

"How do you know this?" Dean asked, voice dead-flat, completely serious, not even trying to deny it. He suddenly sounded a lot less lively and a million times more beaten down.

"Sam told me."

"Of course he did." Dean muttered darkly. "He probably told you about the Leviathans too, didn't he. That inconsiderate-"

" _Dean!_ " Sam's voice suddenly sounded, faintly, as if coming from across the room, but with an anger that demanded Stiles' attention. "What are you doing with my phone?"

"Don't worry about it, Sam." Dean tried to say casually, but it was undercut by Stiles' split second decision.

"SAM!" he yelled, loud enough to probably draw attention from the rest of the hospital, sure, but loud enough that Sam just managed to hear him.

"Is that Stiles?" Stiles heard Sam say urgently, and he could picture Sam holding his hand out imploringly. "Let me talk to him."

"We were actually just finishing up." Dean said, and Stiles wanted to shout _liar!_ But he knew he wouldn't have to.

"You're a terrible liar." Sam said sternly. "Give me the phone."

"Sam-" Dean said with a heavy sigh. "Just- just let me talk to him, okay? You have enough on your plate at the moment, and you know what Bobby said-"

"I know what Bobby said." Sam snapped, and Stiles could picture him planting his feet firmly in the ground and leveling Dean with a trademark "bitchface," as Dean so eloquently called it. "Give me the phone. Or better yet, put him on speaker. We obviously have something we need to discuss."

Dean sighed regretfully, but Stiles knew it was over. And sure enough, after the sound of some shuffling, Dean's voice sounded again, further away.

"Stiles?"

"I'm here." Stiles said from his just-shy-of-comfortable hospital bed.

"You called?"

"Yeah." Stiles said, drawing a breath, because there was no easy outcome of this conversation. "Yeah, I did. I know you guys have been busy and I'm sorry to bother you but it's pretty important and I should have done it a lot sooner-"

"Stiles, stop." Sam said, his voice dangerously close to pity. "We know you're in the hospital. I was actually about to call _you._ "

"John told us." Dean explained. "Well, first he told us you were missing. Then he followed up later with the details."

"So you know about the tests." Stiles muttured with a flat tone.

"Yeah, Stiles." Sam said sympathetically. "We know about the tests."

"Okay." Stiles said, his heart clenching in nerves. It was one thing to confirm suspicions, but to actually say it out loud was a whole other thing. "Okay. Well..." he took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Here's what you don't know. I'm not sick guys, I'm poghdhfjht-"

" _What?"_ Dean asked, but Stiles barely registered it as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. It was like his tongue was trying to tie itself into a knot. And all Stiles wanted to do was bang his head against a wall and ask why the nogitsune had let him call Sam and Dean if it wasn't planning on letting him say anything.

Stiles took another deep breath. "I- I mean, what I mean is..." Stiles trailed off as he thought about how to get around this. But how do you trick a trickster? "There's a noghuishdjhfht- no, that's not what I meant at all. I'm phdjwehkre-"

"Stiles," Dean said exasperatedly, "we're kind of dealing with the end of the world here. It'd be great if you could make some actual sense."

"I'm _trying!_ " Stiles yelled. " It won't let me."

" _It?_ " Sam asked worriedly, and Stiles nearly cried in relief.

"I know what's wrong with you, Sam." Stiles said on a whim. "And the same thing is happening to me. You two need to come to Beacon Hills _now._ "

There was stunned silence at the other end of the line, but before either Sam or Dean could voice a protest, Stiles' hand ended the call of its own accord.

Stiles flopped back on his bed in defeat, gazing at the sun-washed wall sullenly. Dean was keeping secrets, both from him and from Sam. That was worrying. But not as worrying as the appearance of Aiden, glowering in the doorway. His arms were crossed in a way that showed off his bulging muscles, and Stiles couldn't help the brief current of fear that ran through him. Not for himself, but for Aiden. Of what the nogitsune might do to him.

"What do you want?" Stiles asked trepidatiously. He met Aiden's eyes and was a bit confused by what he found there. There was anger, sure, like always, but something else too, something verging on concern.

How odd.

"Aiden?" Stiles asked when he hadn't spoken at Stiles' first question.

Wordlessly, Aiden reached into his pocket and fished out something small and jangly, before tossing it to Stiles, who caught it with ease. The movement was so mundane, and yet Aiden's sour expression and uncharacteristically restrained demeanor made the movement almost sinister. And when Stiles said restrained, he meant _restrained._ Even though Aiden still hadn't moved from his defensive doorway position, from his bed Stiles could clearly see how tense he was. It was like each individual muscle was rebelling against his brain, calling for a fight, and Aiden was barely holding himself together.

Again, how odd.

Stiles turned to the object in his hand, and was not at all surprised to see it to be his car keys. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach as he realized he hadn't even registered them missing. So why was he unsurprised?

"You jump started my jeep?" Stiles asked quietly, and Aiden gave an almost indiscernible nod.

"With who?"

"Derek." Aiden all-but-barked, his voice strangely low, as if trapping a growl. A shiver went up Stiles' spine as he was once again trapped under Aiden's none-too-subtle glare.

"Thank you." Stiles said, face impassive.

"Not a problem." Aiden said snidely.

Stiles hummed in agreement, and turned his attention back to his keys, fully expecting Aiden to be gone when he looked up next. So far, there was nothing new or wrong with the keyring that Stiles could detect. What he would kill for a blacklight, though...

Aiden shifted in the doorway, and Stiles' head snapped up and he zeroed in on the movement.

"Need something?"

"No."

"Okay then." Stiles mused, and turned back to the keyring.

"It's just-" Stiles ' head snapped up again to the strange sight of a small frown on Aiden's face, turning his brash, angry demeanor into one of uncertainty.

"It's just?" Stiles prompted, Aiden's weird behavior putting him on edge.

"Restarting your car wasn't the problem, Stiles. It was figuring out what made it die in the first place."

"Oh?" Stiles asked softly, unassumingly, but behind his still eyes his mind was whirring quickly.

"Yeah." Aiden said firmly.

"My dad said the lights were left on." Stiles said honestly. Though, to be honest, he wouldn't be surprised to find that untrue. The nogitsune had a habit of making a front all too easy for people to believe to hide its true intentions.

"They weren't." Aiden said. "The power was drained directly from the battery. Which should be-"

"Impossible." Stiles finished softly. He gulped. "How did this-"

"Doesn't really matter what happened." Aiden said sullenly. "All that matters is that it did. It's Beacon Hills. Strange things happen all the time, for an infinite list of supernatural reasons, and what usually matters is not how but what the consequences are. Sometimes the identity of the culprit is only useful if you want to kill it. And I don't think they'll be looking to kill you, Stiles. Knowing hunters, you'll finish them off first."

"Aiden-" Stiles started, somehow speaking through that truckload of a revelation. But Aiden merely grimaced and sauntered out the door, leaving Stiles to call after him fruitlessly, his hospital bed and tired body feeling like a prison.

It was only after several moments of solace, kicking himself for not running after Aiden and straightening things out, for trying to push Allison away, and for worrying his brothers that something hit him. He was awake now, but the last time he had been conscious was when he was trapped in the basement- no, the cave-with the nogitsune.

So how did he know that his dad thought the lights to his jeep had been left on?

Actually, how did he know it had been dead at all?


	12. My Poor Brain

**A/N**

 **Hey guys... thanks so much for reading. Okay, I know this apology and this chapter are long overdue. College kicked me kinda hard, to the point where I didn't have much motivation or want to work on this anymore. I think I have recovered though... finishing this chapter gave me an opening to try some new things that I think will make the next few chapters more exciting. The ending to this chapter is supposed to tie into the beginning of chapter one. We are now in part two of the story, or will be in chapter 13, which was originally the main focus before I got off track. Part 2 is the 60 hours Stiles is alone with the nogitsune, before the story picks up again in Letharia Vulpina. This chapter is the events at the end of the previous episode, Riddled. I'm super excited for part 2 and I hope you are as well. I apologize for my major absence. In the middle of it I passed my two year anniversary of writing on this website so yay... as well as the year anniversary of finishing NTAF. I know things haven't been as organized as they were during that story and I apologize again for the inconsistency. I blame college. I feel like that is common on this medium so I hope I can be forgiven. I hope you guys like this chapter and continue reading and being patient with me. As always review, check out my other stories, and enjoy!**

Ch. 12

My Poor Brain

Stiles winced as light after light zoomed by. From his rather limited vantage point, all Stiles could see was the rather uninteresting hospital ceiling followed by all-too-long flashes of blinding fluorescent light. The bumps and sharp turns had his shoulders careening from side to side on the gurney, and it would probably make sense for Stiles to close his eyes. But he couldn't do that. So even as each new light pierced him and made his headache worsen, he was calmed by the fact that it was one more moment away from the nogitsune's control. Eventually, the winding road of the gurney came to a halt, and with it, briefly, Stiles' heart. He wasn't _scared_ per se... He had done hospital tests before. Like the x-ray he had gotten on his arm after falling out of a tree with Scott. Or the x-ray on his leg after hunting a Wendigo with John. Or the x-ray on his wrist after hunting a ghost with John. Or the... Anyway, you get it. The day has long passed since Stiles was afraid of hospitals. So as he was led into the MRI room by an amicable forty-ish doctor, and as he sat on the table connected to the long, arched equipment that would dissect his brain, it wasn't fear that was making Stiles' left leg bounce up and down restlessly. It was nerves.

Stiles had never liked all those x-rays, all those tests. Yes, he had gotten used to them, and yes, they were necessary to his continued healthy existence and hunter career, but he had never _liked_ them. All that sitting still, clenching his eyes to the point of pain to prevent even the slightest twitch that would make the process start all over again. And all under the watchful eye of John or Dean, or Sam in the very beginning, their arms crossed, their expressions sour, daring him to move, daring him to make another mistake. Dean was so concerned about Stiles' health to the point of indirect anger, but John... well, he always acted like it was Stiles' fault he had gotten hurt. Even though it hadn't been _Stiles'_ idea to go in that cave in the first place-

The point is, those tests had been excruciatingly difficult but reasonable. They were (relatively) short. Their outcomes were predictable. If Stiles thought his arm was broken, he was usually right. And then Stiles would go home in a new, brightly-colored cast, and his family would disappear with some guilty hugs and some chocolate to make him feel better. And Sam and Dean would call him every week to see how he was doing. And the day after getting his cast off, Stiles would open the front door to find his brothers wearing sheepish expressions, standing behind a grim-looking John. And the cycle would begin anew.

But _this_ test... Stiles didn't know what the outcome would be. He couldn't see the end. He couldn't see a probable outcome where the nogitsune had itself probed by a large electrical machine and everyone made it out okay. There was nothing wrong with his brain, Stiles knew there was nothing wrong with his brain. (The nogitsune would not be stupid enough to possess someone with brain damage. If there was one thing Stiles had figured out in his brief and tiring possession it was that the nogitsune's mind was only as powerful as his own. And that was his most terrifying revelation.) Stiles was nervous because his car had been found in the hospital parking lot three hours before he himself had arrived, and that meant this was some sort of plan. Had to be. Coincidences like that don't happen when a demon is possessing a Winchester.

"Stiles?" Melissa's voice called, far off in the distance. Stiles squinted against the harsh fluorescents and found her face mere inches from his own, a stethoscope pressed to his chest. "You alright there, honey? I think I lost you there for a sec." Stiles nodded once, swiftly. "Ok, then I need you to breathe in deeply."

Stiles complied, and soon Melissa finished her tests. With a concerned smile, she complied her things and scurried into the observation room next to the amicable doctor and his dad.

 _Oh god, Dad..._ Stiles couldn't even imagine what his father must be going through. To not know whether or not his son had the same illness that killed his wife or whether it was so much worse... To choose between hoping for dementia or a demon. Stiles, at least, never had to make that choice. He had always known which one it was.

All of a sudden, the double doors to the operation room swung open to reveal an out-of-breath and wistful Scott, who in two strides crossed the entire room and enveloped Stiles in a crushing hug.

"Sc-ott-" Stiles gasped as best as he could, what with the immense weight on his ribs, and the emotional turmoil in his brain. "I- can't- really breathe-"

"I don't care." Scott mumbled. "Stiles, I don't- I don't-" All at once Scott straightened, crushing weight disappearing, and he placed two confining hands on either of Stiles' shoulders and stared at him meaningfully. It was heartbreakingly kind, and no, those were not tears in Stiles' eyes, but he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable under Scott's gaze. Like Scott, pure as he was, could see straight into Stiles' soul. And Stiles didn't want him doing that, didn't want to risk him seeing how bad it really was.

"Stiles," Scott said sternly, "if this doesn't go the way we want it to..." Stiles gulped because it already had. "We'll do something." He squeezed Stiles' shoulders in a gesture meant to be comforting. " _I'll_ do something."

It took Stiles a moment to process exactly what that _something_ was, but Scott looked so sure that the answer was soon obvious. And then Stiles was flooded with all kinds of emotion he didn't know how to process. Fear, mainly. Because it was pretty hard to be a hunter and a werewolf. And Scott, Scott knew that, and he was still willing to risk it, to risk the WInchesters and who the hell else coming after them for turning one of their own, Scott was willing to risk hell to keep Stiles alive, and the thought was simultaneously relieving and terrifying and- and it did not actually matter. Because Stiles didn't have dementia.

So all Stiles could do was give Scott a crushing hug of his own and wish down to all of his bones that this could have gone another way.

And all too soon Scott was gone and Stiles was alone with his poor brain.

"Now, Stiles, the test will last about 45 minutes." The doctor said once Stiles was lying down and the not-tears had dried from his cheeks. "You will hear a clanging noise, like a hammer hitting an anvil. Those are the electrical pulses made by the machine. For the test to work best, it's best if you don't move."

Right, okay. He can do this. Stiles shifted his shoulders, trying to get comfortable.

"Even a little."

Great.

The clanging noise started, and Stiles tried not to wince at how eardrum-splittingly horrible it was.

He can do this.

Ten minutes in, Stiles got used to the sound to the point where his mind was able to wander. He thought about all those old tests for a while. How John had glowered throughout their entireties, how Melissa's mouth would always be in a tight line because she did _not_ like John Winchester. How Sam, at the first one, was still in high school and was showing his math homework to Stiles to distract him. How Dean, when Sam wasn't looking, flipped through the problems to see if he could do them. How they never told Sheriff Stilinski what had happened, not until the cast was on and Stiles was tucked in bed.

He can do this. But maybe he should think about something else. Like that SAT in a couple weeks that he is totally going to nail.

Twenty minutes in, Stiles started feeling weird.

It was his fingers first. It took him a while to notice, but when Stiles tried to twitch his fingers to relieve himself of the stationary discomfort, they wouldn't budge. Alarmed, Stiles tried rolling his shoulders back, not caring if he disrupted the test. His shoulders would not move. His heart, however, began to beat rapidly against his chest. No. Not now.

Stiles felt the panic in his chest bloom, and he tried to crush it down because he could not have a panic attack in a loud metal box, he would not have a panic attack in a small metal box, but the more confining he imagined it the more the panic grew and grew until his breath was growing shorter and his vision was swimming and he did not even notice how his shoulders were obeying him now as he struggled for some purchase, he closed his eyes tightly-

-and opened them to a blue-black room.

He was standing next to the MRI scanner in his street clothes- a blue-and-black-striped hoodie, sneakers, and jeans- and the whole room was enveloped in a dark, bluish haze that told Stiles that this was something very similar to a dream.

Sensing movement behind him, Stiles turned, but with a quickening heart he discovered nothing there.

"Have you figured out my riddle yet?"

The voice. That voice, the voice locked into his head. It came from behind the empty scanner, and Stiles swiveled around it to find the source but again found nothing.

"If you solve it," the raspy voice spoke again, "we might consider letting them go." The nogitsune appeared then, standing in the same spot Stiles had stood seconds before, creeping out from behind the scanner with the grace of every kind of terrible nightmare. Its head was covered in the same dirty bandages, its teeth the same glinting silver, and it leered at Stiles with a ferocity that made him shiver.

"Letting who go?" Stiles asked, voice wavering. Behind the nogitsune, Stiles saw the observation room, where Melissa and his Dad were pouring somberly over a computer.

The nogitsune, as if reading Stiles' mind, turned towards them. _No..._

"Your friends." it whispered. "Your family. Everyone who ever meant something to you."

The words felt like a punch to the gut, and Stiles stumbled at their gravity. It would do it. Stiles knew that the nogitsune had the power and ferocity to follow through on its threats. It would kill them all. Dad. Melissa. Scott. Lydia. Allison. Derek. Isaac. Ethan. Danny. Aiden. Sam. Dean. Cas, if the s-o-b gets resurrected.

The nogitsune whirled back to him and sneered. "We're going to destroy all of them, Stiles!" it roared. That one word, _we,_ chilled Stiles to the bone, made him shudder, to the point where he almost missed the nogitsune's next words. "One by one."

He could picture it. The nogitsune, with Stiles' body, would be a powerful weapon. Immune to mountain ash and wolfsbane, it could power through even the basest defences with the reflexes and training Stiles had been developing for _years._

" _Why?_ " Stiles asked, breaking a little. _Why me?_

The nogitsune did not respond with a concrete answer. Of course it would not. It created chaos for chaos' sake, it did not need to justify its actions. Instead, the gravelly voice replied with something far more sinister.

"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it. What is it?"

Stiles was transported back to the cave, to being cold and alone and afraid. Even now, warm and awake, the answer escaped him. There was nothing everyone had: not fears or hopes or even abilities. "I don't know."

"Everyone has it but no one can lose it." It rasped again, creeping around the scanner, and Stiles matched its steps so that they were caught in an uneasy circle. "What is it, Stiles?"

"I don't know." Stiles said, firmer this time. He tried hardening his eyes to a glare but the tears made it hard to see. Stiles settled for a glower. They kept circling, the hazy blue light throwing the medical instruments into hazy relief and casting strange shadows-

-wait a minute.

"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it!" The nogitsune roared, its rasp rebounding off the walls as it leaned forward menacingly, close enough that Stiles could count every one of its sharp metal teeth. Stiles stumbled back in surprise, and he quickly glanced at the nogitsune's feet. The nogitsune's oddly sneakered feet.

And as predicted, there was no shadow.

"WHAT IS IT, STILES?"

The bandages were throwing him off. They were meant to. Looking away from their decayed yellowness for perhaps the first time, Stiles saw a sweatshirt and jeans that mirrored his own. Height that mirrored his own. He could have sworn that the nogitsune had towered over him... But this was a dream. Or at least a very strange reality. Maybe it had been taller, maybe not, it didn't matter anymore, because Stiles was sure he was staring at his doppleganger. His very own-

"Shadow."

Slowly, much too slow for Stiles' horror, the nogitsune raised a slender hand and began to pull at those horrible, yellow bandages. It unwound them and unwound them until they formed a puddle at its feet- his feet- and- and- and- it was certainly strange because mirrors are usually flipped. This wasn't flipped. Stiles saw his own steadfast smirk for what it really was. And he knew, through the shock and the hurt he knew what this meant. This wasn't demon possession, this was something else entirely. The nogitsune was part of him now, probably always had been and he knew-

As if on cue, the lights flickered. Stiles opened his eyes stared at the walls of the MRI scanner with disdain and stretched, craning his neck this way and that, rolling his shoulders back. Then he moved, out passed the distracted adults and into the antechamber where he had undressed. Finding his clothes was easy, and lacing up his sneakers took no time at all. The hospital hallway was dark and flashing when he stepped into it again. Nurses and patients alike were rushing past him in flurries, not even caring as he went against the grain, as he moved with chilling purpose, and as he glared at the solitary stationary figure in the elevator at the end of the hall. Oh, she was annoying. But she was alone. Stiles walked up to her, face blank, eyes expectant.

"You know me?" Noshiko asked challengingly, which, given how much younger she was, was kind of adorable. He didn't even bother affirming, it was obvious. "Then you know I won't be deterred by your choice of host. Even if it is a hunter."

Stiles smirked because well, that had been the best perk. "You threatening us?" he asked, relishing the way that word rolled off his tongue. _Us._ He liked that. He could almost feel his shadow squirm in disapproval.

Two Oni appeared at Noshiko's sides, dark and menacing, and Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her dramatics. He wasn't that much of a hypocrite.

"Now I'm threatening you." she said. Her stance was tall but Stiles caught the flicker of worry behind her eyes.

"We're not really afraid of your little fireflies."

There was chaos in this hospital, and lots of it. So much that Stiles could practically snatch it out of the air. What chance did smoke soldiers have against power like that?

Noshiko seemed to realize this, because under her hard anger was genuine fear, and trapped in her ears were the screams of the civilians of Oak Creek. She wasn't here to fight him. She wasn't strong enough. Stiles turned away in distaste, off to find a real challenge amidst this sea of chaos, and as he walked away he heard her call.

"If the Oni can't defeat you, I know someone who will!" she yelled, and Stiles rolled off her words with ease.

"They can't defeat me." he murmured. He stretched out his new, strong hands. He strided with his powerful legs. "The Oni do not stand a chance against Stiles Winchester."

Stiles Winchester.

He liked the sound of that.

-break-

So now here we are. You know the story: Stiles Winchester, AKA the nogitsune, caused an electrical disaster at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, injuring several people, including the well-regarded Isaac Lahey. That was the last anyone ever saw of Stiles until over two days later, when he showed up in the basement of Beacon Hills High School with a glorified dog whistle and a peace offering that was, unbeknownst at the time, false. What happened in the missing 60 hours? We know that Stiles rigged a trap in the woods, framed Derek and Argent for murder, planted a real bomb and a fake bomb, and stole 100,000 dollars of blood money, but that can't be it. For an immortal trickster, accomplishing all of that couldn't have taken two days. So what did he do in between the plotting, the murder, and the scheming?

60 hours, as Stiles will attest to, is a long time to be locked inside your own head, fighting for control. 60 hours was a long time to be kicking and screaming, fighting tooth and nail on no sleep and no progress. 60 hours was a daunting, dare say impossible amount of time to keep struggling. So maybe it was impossible to keep struggling. And maybe at some points, Stiles stopped fighting, let his body sag against his mental restraints and give in to the torment. Maybe the guilt Stiles would find himself harboring well after the next 60 hours would not be completely unfounded. Maybe there's a reason Winchesters are destined to end up in hell.


End file.
